(P1F"P 

of  George   D.    Bloc 
Class    of    1892 


LITTLE  CLASSICS. 


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The  Series  includes  18 volumes,  as  follows: 


EXILE. 

INTELLECT. 

TRAGEDY. 

LIFE. 

LA  UGHTER. 

LOVE. 

ROMANCE. 

MYSTERY. 

COMEDY. 


HEROISM. 
FORTUNE. 
NARRATIVE 

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LYRICAL  POEMS. 
MINOR  POEMS. 
NATURE. 
HUMANITY. 
A  UTHORS. 


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•   •  • 


LITTLE  CLASSICS 


EDITED    BY 


ROSSITER  JOHNSON. 


LIFE. 


RAB   AND    HIS   FRIENDS.  — A    ROMANCE   OF    REAL  LIFE.  —THE  LUCK  OF  ROARING 

CAMP.  JERRY   JARVIS'S    WlQ. BEAUTY    AND    THE    BEAST. DAVID 

SWAN.  DREAMTHORP. A     BACHELOR'S     REVERY.  THE 

GRAMMAR   OF  LIFE.  — MY  CHATEAUX. DREAM-CHIL- 
DREN.—  THE  MAN   IN  THE    RESERVOIR. WEST- 
MINSTER ABBEY. THE  PURITANS. 

GETTYSBURG. 


TWENTY-FOURTH   EDITION. 

BOSTON  : 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN    AND    COMPANY. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1874, 

BY  JAMES   R.    OSGOOD    AND   COMPANY, 
in  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington, 


D. 


CAMBRIDGE  :   PRINTK)  AT  THE  RIVERSIDE  PRESS. 

V 


CONTENTS. 


RAB  AND  HIS  FRIENDS  .  . 
A  ROMANCE  OF  REAL  LIFE  . 
THE  LUCK  OF  ROARING  CAMP 
JERRY  JARVIS'S  WIG  .  .  . 
BEAUTY  AND  THE  BEAST  .  . 

DAVID  SWAN 

DREAMTHORP  

A  BACHELOR'S  REVERY  .  . 
THE  GRAMMAR  OF  LIFE  .  . 

MY  CHATEAUX 

DREAM-CHILDREN  .... 
THE  MAN  IN  THE  RESERVOIR 
WESTMINSTER  ABBEY  .  .  . 

THE  PURITANS 

GETTYSBURG    . 


John  Brown,  M .  D.  . 

William  D.  Howells  .      . 

Bret  Earte    ... 

Richard  Harris  Barham 

Nathaniel  Parker  Willis 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

Alexander  Smith 

Donald  G.  Mitchell  . 

Benjamin  F.  Taylor  • 

George  William  Curtis 

Charles  Lamb 

Charles  Fenno  Hoffman 

Joseph  Addison   • 

Thomas  Babington  Macaulay   203 

Abraham  Lincoln      -      .      .207 


PAGB 

7 

26 
44 
60 
85 
99 
108 
126 
153 
160 
183 
189 
199 


M236153 


RAB   AND   HIS    FRIENDS. 

BY  JOHN  BROWN,   M.  D. 

JOUR-AND-THIRTY  years  ago,  Bob  Ainslie 
and  I  were  coming  up  Infirmary  Street,  from 
the  High  School,  our  heads  together,  and  our 
arms  intertwisted  as  only  lovers  and  boys  know  how  or 
why. 

When  we  got  to  the  top  of  the  street,  and  turned 
north,  we  espied  a  crowd  at  the  Tron  Church.  "  A  dog- 
fight !  "  shouted  Bob,  and  was  off;  and  so  was  I,  both 
of  us  all  but  praying  that  it  might  not  be  over  before  we 
got  up  !  And  is  not  this  boy -nature  ?  and  human  nature 
too  ?  and  don't  we  all  wish  a  house  on  fire  not  to  be  out 
before  we  see  it?  Dogs  like  fighting;  old  Isaac  says 
they  "  delight "  in  it,  and  for  the  best  of  all  reasons ; 
and  boys  are  not  cruel  because  they  like  to  see  the  fight. 
They  see  three  of  the  great  cardinal  virtues  of  dog  or 
man  —  courage,  endurance,  and  skill  —  in  intense  action. 
This  is  very  different  from  a  love  of  making  dogs  fight, 
and  enjoying,  and  aggravating,  and  making  gain  by  their 
pluck.  A  boy,  be  he  never  so  fond  himself  of  fight- 
ing, if  he  be  a  good  boy,  hates  and  despises  all  this,  but 
he  would  have  run  off  with  Bob  and  me  fast  enough  :  it 


8  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

is  a  natiu-al  and  a  not  -wicked  interest  that  all  boys  and 
men  have  in  witnessing  intense  energy  in  action. 

Does  any  curious  and  finely  ignorant  woman  wish  to 
know  how  Bob's  eye  at  a  glance  announced  a  dog -fight  to 
his  brain  ?  He  did  not,  he  could  not,  see  the  dogs  fight- 
ing ;  it  was  a  flash  of  an  inference,  a  rapid  induction.  The 
crowd  round  a  couple  of  dogs  fighting  is  a  crowd  mascu- 
line mainly,  with  an  occasional  active,  compassionate 
woman  fluttering  wildly  round  the  outside,  and  using 
her  tongue  and  her  hands  freely  upon  the  men,  as  so 
many  "  brutes  "  ;  it  is  a  crowd  annular,  compact,  and 
mobile;  a  crowd  centripetal,  having  its  eyes  and  its 
heads  all  bent  downward  and  inward,  to  one  common 
focus. 

Well,  Bob  and  I  are  up,  and  find  it  is  not  over: 
a  small  thoroughbred  -white  bull-terrier  is  busy  throt- 
tling a  large  shepherd's  dog,  unaccustomed  to  war,  but 
not  to  be  trifled  with.  They  are  hard  at  it ;  the  scien- 
tific little  fellow  doing  his  work  in  great  style,  his  pas- 
toral enemy  fighting  wildly,  but  with  the  sharpest  of  teeth 
and  a  great  courage.  Science  and  breeding,  however, 
soon  had  their  own ;  the  Game  Chicken,  as  the  prema- 
ture Bob  called  him,  working  his  way  up,  took  his  final 
grip  of  poor  Yarrow's  throat,  —  and  he  lay  gasping  and 
done  for.  His  master,  a  brown,  handsome,  big  young 
shepherd  from  Tweedsmuir,  would  have  liked  to  knock 
down  any  man,  would  "  drink  up  Esil,  or  eat  a  croco- 
dile," for  that  part,  if  he  had  a  chance.  It  was  no  use 
kicking  the  little  dog ;  that  would  only  make  him  hold 
the  closer.  Many  were  the  means  shouted  out  in  mouth- 
fuls  of  the  best  possible  ways  of  ending  it.  "  Water  !  " 


BAB   AND    HIS    FBIENDS.  9 

but  there  was  none  near,  and  many  cried  for  it  who 
might  have  got  it  from  the  well  at  Blackfriars  Wynd. 
"  Bite  the  tail !  "  and  a  large,  vague,  benevolent,  middle- 
aged  man,  more  desirous  than  wise,  with  some  strug- 
gle got  the  bushy  end  of  Yarrow's  tail  into  his  ample 
mouth,  and  bit  it  with  all  his  might.  This  was  more 
than  enough  for  the  much-enduring,  much-perspiring 
shepherd,  who,  with  a  gleam  of  joy  over  his  broad  visage, 
delivered  a  terrific  facer  upon  our  large,  vague,  benevo- 
lent, middle-aged  friend,  —  who  went  down  like  a  shot. 

StiU  the  Chicken  holds  ;  death  not  far  off.  "  Snuff!  a 
pinch  of  snuff!  "  observed  a  calm,  highly  dressed  young 
buck,  with  an  eye-glass  in  his  eye.  "  Snuff,  indeed  !  " 
growled  the  angry  crowd,  affronted  and  glaring.  "  Snuff ! 
a  pinch  of  snuff ! "  again  observes  the  buck,  but  with 
more  urgency ;  whereupon  were  produced  several  open 
boxes,  and  from  a  mull  which  may  have  been  at  Cullo- 
den,  he  took  a  pinch,  knelt  down,  and  presented  it  to  the 
nose  of  the  Chicken.  The  laws  of  physiology  and  of 
snuff  take  their  course ;  the  Chicken  sneezes,  and  Yar- 
row is  free. 

The  young  pastoral  giant  stalks  off  with  Yarrow  in  his 
arms,  —  comforting  him. 

But  the  Bull  Terrier's  blood  is  up,  and  his  soul  unsat- 
isfied ;  he  grips  the  first  dog  he  meets,  and  discovering 
she  is  not  a  dog,  in  Homeric  phrase,  he  makes  a  brief 
sort  of  amende,  and  is  off.  The  boys,  with  Bob  and  me 
at  their  head,  are  after  him:  down  Niddry  Street  he 
goes,  bent  on  mischief ;  up  the  Cowgate,  like  an  arrow, 
—  Bob  and  I,  and  our  small  men,  panting  behind. 

There,  under  the  single  arch  of  the  South  Bridge,  is  a 
1* 


10  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

huge  mastiff,  sauntering  dovrn  the  middle  of  the  cause- 
way, as  if  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  :  he  is  old,  gray, 
and  brindled,  as  big  as  a  little  Highland  bull,  and  has  the 
Shakespearian  dewlaps  shaking  as  he  goes. 

The  Chicken  makes  straight  at  him,  and  fastens  on  his 
throat.  To  our  astonishment,  the  great  creature  does 
nothing  but  stand  still,  hold  himself  up,  and  roar,  —  yes, 
roar  ;  a  long,  serious,  remonstrative  roar.  How  is  this  ? 
Bob  and  I  are  up  to  them.  He  is  muzzled  !  The  bailies 
had  proclaimed  a  general  muzzling,  and  his  master, 
studying  strength  and  economy  mainly,  had  encompassed 
his  huge  jaws  in  a  home-made  apparatus,  constructed 
out  of  the  leather  of  some  ancient  breeching.  His  mouth 
was  open  as  far  as  it  could ;  his  lips  curled  up  in  rage, 
—  a  sort  of  terrible  grin;  his  teeth  gleaming,  ready, 
from  out  the  darkness ;  the  strap  across  his  mouth 
tense  as  a  bow-string ;  his  whole  frame  stiff  with  indig- 
nation and  surprise ;  his  roar  asking  us  all  round, 
"  Did  you  ever  see  the  like  of  this  ?  "  He  looked  a 
statue  of  anger  and  astonishment,  done  in  Aberdeen 
granite. 

We  soon  had  a  crowd;  the  Chicken  held  on.  "A 
knife !  "  cried  Bob ;  and  a  cobbler  gave  him  his  knife. 
You  know  the  kind  of  knife,  worn  away  obliquely  to  a 
point,  and  always  keen.  I  put  its  edge  to  the  tense 
leather,  it  ran  before  it ;  and  then  !  —  one  sudden  jerk  of 
that  enormous  head,  a  sort  of  dirty  mist  about  his  mouth, 
no  noise,  —  and  the  bright  and  fierce  little  fellow  is 
dropped,  limp  and  dead.  A  solemn  pause:  this  was 
more  than  any  of  us  had  bargained  for.  I  turned  the  little 
fellow  over,  and  saw  he  was  quite  dead  :  the  mastiff  had 


RAB    AND    HIS    FRIENDS.  11 

taken  him  by  the  small  of  his  back,  like  a  rat,  and 
broken  it. 

He  looked  down  at  his  victim,  appeased,  ashamed,  and 
amazed ;  snuffed  him  all  over,  stared  at  him,  and  taking 
a  sudden  thought,  turned  round  and  trotted  off.  Bob 
took  the  dead  dog  up,  and  said,  "  John,  we  '11  bury  him 
after  tea."  "  Yes,"  said  I,  and  was  off  after  the  mas- 
tiff. He  made  up  the  Cowgate  at  a  rapid  swing ;  he  had 
forgotten  some  engagement.  He  turned  up  the  Candle- 
maker  Row,  and  stopped  at  the  Harrow  Inn. 

There  was  a  carrier's  cart  ready  to  start,  and  a  keen, 
thin,  impatient,  black -a-vised  little  man,  his  hand  at  his 
gray  horse's  head,  looking  about  angrily  for  something. 
"  Rab,  ye  thief !  "  said  he,  aiming  a  kick  at  my  great 
friend,  who  drew  cringing  up,  and  avoided  the  heavy 
shoe  with  more  agility  than  dignity,  and,  watching  his 
master's  eye,  slunk  dismayed  under  the  cart,  —  his  eais 
down,  and  as  much  as  he  had  of  tail  down  too. 

What  a  man  this  must  be  —  thought  I  —  to  whom  my 
tremendous  hero  turns  tail !  The  carrier  saw  the  muz- 
zle hanging,  cut  and  useless,  from  his  neck,  and  I  eagerly 
told  him  the  story,  which  Bob  and  I  always  thought, 
and  still  think,  Homer,  or  King  David,  or  Sir  Walter 
alone  were  worthy  to  rehearse.  The  severe  little  man 
was  mitigated,  and  condescended  to  say,  "  Rab,  ma  man, 
puir  Rabbie  " ;  whereupon  the  stump  of  a  tail  rose  up, 
the  ears  were  cocked,  the  eyes  filled  and  were  comforted ; 
the  two  friends  were  reconciled.  "  Hupp  !  "  and  a  stroke 
of  the  whip  were  given  to  Jess  ;  and  off  went  the  three. 

Bob  and  I  buried  the  Game  Chicken  that  night  (we 
had  not  much  of  a  tea)  in  the  back-green  of  his  house  in 


12  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

Melville  Street,  No.  17,  with  considerable  gravity  and 
silence  ;  and  being  at  the  time  in  the  Iliad,  and,  like  all 
boys,  Trojans,  we  called  him  Hector,  of  course. 

Six  years  have  passed,  —  a  long  time  for  a  boy  and  a 
dog:  Bob  Ainslie  is  off  to  the  wars;  I  am  a  medical 
student,  and  clerk  at  Hinto  House  Hospital. 

Rab  I  saw  almost  every  week,  on  the  Wednesday ;  and 
we  had  much  pleasant  intimacy.  I  found  the  way  to  his 
heart  by  frequent  scratching  of  his  huge  head,  and  an 
occasional  bone.  When  I  did  not  notice  him  he  would 
plaiit  himself  straight  before  me,  and  stand  wagging  that 
bud  of  a  tail,  and  looking  up,  with  his  head  a  little 
to  the  one  side.  His  master  I  occasionally  saw;  he 
used  to  call  me  "Maister  John/5  but  was  laconic  as 
any  Spartan. 

One  fine  October  afternoon,  I  was  leaving  the  hospi- 
tal, when  I  saw  the  krge  gate  open,  and  in  walked  Rab, 
with  that  great  and  easy  saunter  of  his.  He  looked  as  if 
taking  general  possession  of  the  place  ;  like  the  Duke  of 
Wellington  entering  a  subdued  city,  satiated  with  victory 
and  peace.  After  him  came  Jess,  now  white  from  age, 
with  her  cart  ;  and  in  it  a  woman  carefully  wrapped  up, 
—  the  carrier  leading  the  horse  anxiously,  and  looking 
back.  When  he  saw  me,  James  (for  his  name  was 
James  Noble)  made  a  curt  and  grotesque  "boo,"  and 
said,  "  Maister  John,  this  is  the  mistress ;  she  's  got  a 
trouble  in  her  breest,  —  some  kind  o'  an  income  we  're 
thinkinV' 

'  By  this  time  I  saw  the  woman's  face ;  she  was  sitting 
on  a  sack  filled  with  straw,  her  husband's  plaid  round 


RAB    AND    HIS    FRIENDS.  13 

her,  and  his  big-coat,  with,  its  large  white  metal  buttons, 
over  her  feet. 

I  never  saw  a  more  unforgettable  face,  —  pale,  serious, 
lonely,  delicate,  sweet,  without  being  at  all  what  we  call 
fine.  She  looked  sixty,  and  had  on  a  mutch,  white  as 
snow,  with  its  black  ribbon,  her  silvery,  smooth  hair 
setting  off  her  dark  gray  eyes,  —  eyes  such  as  one  sees 
only  twice  or  thrice  in  a  lifetime,  full  of  suffering,  full 
also  of  the  overcoming  of  it;  her  eyebrows  black  and 
delicate,  and  her  mouth  firm,  patient,  and  contented, 
which  few  mouths  ever  are. 

As  I  have  said,  I  never  saw  a  more  beautiful  counte- 
nance, or  one  more  subdued  to  settled  quiet.  "  Ailie," 
said  James,  "this  is  Maister  John,  the  young  doctor; 
Rab's  freend,  ye  ken.  We  often  speak  aboot  you, 
doctor."  She  smiled,  and  made  a  movement,  but  said 
nothing,  and  prepared  to  come  down,  putting  her  plaid 
aside  and  rising.  Had  Solomon,  in  all  his  glory,  been 
handing  down  the  Queen  of  Sheba  at  his  palace  gate,  he 
could  not  have  done  it  more  daintily,  more  tenderly, 
more  like  a  gentleman,  than  did  James  the  Howgate 
carrier,  when  he  lifted  down  Ailie  his  wife. 

The  contrast  of  his  small,  swarthy,  weather-beaten, 
keen,  worldly  face  to  hers,  pale,  subdued,  and  beautiful, 
was  something  wonderful.  Rab  looked  on  concerned 
and  puzzled,  but  ready  for  anything  that  might  turn  up, 
—  were  it  to  strangle  the  nurse,  the  porter,  or  even  me. 
Ailie  and  he  seemed  great  friends. 

"  As  I  was  sayin',  she 's  got  a  kind  oj  trouble  in  her 
breest,  doctor ;  wull  ye  tak'  a  look  at  it  ?  "  We  walked 
into  the  consulting-room,  all  four;  Rab  grim  and  comic, 


14  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

willing  to  be  happy  and  confidential  if  cause  could  be 
shown,  willing  also  to  be  the  reverse,  on  the  same  terms. 
Ailie  sat  down,  undid  ner  open  gown  and  her  lawn 
handkerchief  round  her  neck,  and,  without  a  word, 
showed  me  her  right  breast.  I  looked  at  and  examined 
it  carefully;  she  and  James  watching  me,  and  Uab 
eying  all  three.  What  could  I  say  ?  There  it  was,  that 
had  once  been  so  soft,  so  shapely,  so  white,  so  bountiful, 
so  "  full  of  all  blessed  conditions,"  hard  as  a  stone,  a 
centre  of  horrid  pain,  making  that  pale  face  with  its  gray, 
lucid,  reasonable  eyes,  and  its  sweet  resolved  mouth, 
express  the  full  measure  of  suffering  overcome.  Why 
was  that  gentle,  modest,  sweet  woman,  clean  and  lova- 
ble, condemned  by  God  to  bear  such  a  burden  ?  I  got 
her  away  to  bed. 

"  May  Rab  and  me  bide  ?  "  said  James. 

"  You  may  ;  and  Rab,  if  he  will  behave  himself." 

"  I  'se  warrant  he 's  do  that,  doctor."  And  in  slunk 
the  faithful  beast. 

I  wish  you  could  have  seen  him.  There  are  no  such 
dogs  now.  He  belonged  to  a  lost  tribe.  As  I  have  said, 
he  was  brindled  and  gray  like  Rubislaw  granite  ;  his  hair 
short,  hard,  and  close,  like  a  lion's ;  his  body  thick-set, 
like  a  little  bull,  —  a  sort  of  compressed  Hercules  of  a  dog. 
He  must  have  been  ninety  pounds'  weight,  at  the  least ; 
he  had  a  large,  blunt  head ;  his  muzzle  black  as  night,  his 
mouth  blacker  than  any  night,  a  tooth  or  two  —  being  all 
he  had  —  gleaming  out  of  his  jaws  of  darkness.  His  head 
was  scarred  with  the  records  of  old  wounds,  a  sort  of 
series  of  fields  of  battle  all  over  it ;  one  eye  out,  one  ear 
cropped  as  close  as  was  Archbishop  Leighton's  father's ; 


BAB   AND    HIS    FRIENDS.  15 

the  remaining  eye  had  the  power  of  two ;  and  above  it, 
and  in  constant  communication  with  it,  was  a  tattered  rag 
of  an  ear,  which  was  forever  unfurling  itself  like  an  old 
flag ;  and  then  that  bud  of  a  tail,  about  one  inch  long,  —if 
it  could  in  any  sense  be  said  to  be  long,  being  as  broad  as 
long} — the  mobility,  the  instantaneousness,  of  that  bud 
were  very  funny  and  surprising,  and  its  expressive  twink- 
lings and  winkings,  the  intercommunications  between  the 
eye,  the  ear,  and  it,  were  of  the  oddest  and  swiftest. 

Rab  had  the  dignity  and  simplicity  of  great  size ;  and 
having  fought  his  way  all  along  the  road  to  absolute 
supremacy,  he  was  as  mighty  in  his  own  line  as  Julius 
Csesar  or  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  and  had  the  gravity 
of  all  great  fighters. 

You  must  have  observed  the  likeness  of  certain  men 
to  certain  animals,  and  of  certain  dogs  to  men.  Now, 
I  never  looked  at  Rab  without  thinking  of  the  great 
Baptist  preacher,  Andrew  Fuller.  The  same  large, 
heavy,  menacing,  combative,  sombre,  honest  counte- 
nance, the  same  deep  inevitable  eye,  the  same  look,  —  as 
of  thunder  asleep,  but  ready,  — neither  a  dog  nor  a  man 
to  be  trifled  with. 

Next  day  my  master,  the  surgeon,  examined  Ailie. 
There  was  no  doubt  it  must  kill  her,  and  soon.  It  could 
be  removed ;  it  might  never  return ;  it  would  give  her 
speedy  relief ;  she  should  have  it  done. 

She  courtesied,  looked  at  James,  and  said,  "When?" 

"  To-morrow,"  said  the  kind  surgeon,  a  man  of  few 
words. 

She  and  James  and  Rab  and  I  retired.  I  noticed  that 
he  and  she  spoke  little,  but  seemed  to  anticipate  every- 


16  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

thing  in  each  other.  The  following  day,  at  noon,  the 
students  came  in,  hurrying  up  the  great  stair.  At  the 
first  landing-place,  on  a  small,  -well-known  blackboard, 
was  a  bit  of  paper  fastened  with  wafers,  and  many  re- 
mains of  old  wafers  beside  it.  On  the  paper  were  the 
words,  "  An  operation  to-day.  J.  B.,  Clerk." 

Up  ran  the  youths,  eager  to  secure  good  places ;  in 
they  crowded,  full  of  interest  and  talk.  "  What 's  the 
case?"  "Which  side  is  it?" 

Don't  think  them  heartless:  they  are  neither  better 
nor  worse  than  you  or  I ;  they  get  over  their  professional 
horrors,  and  into  their  proper  work ;  and  in  them  pity, 
as  an  emotion,  ending  in  itself  or  at  best  in  tears  and 
a  long-drawn  breath,  lessens ;  while  jnty  as  a  motive  is 
quickened,  and  gains  power  and  purpose.  It  is  well  for 
poor  human  nature  that  it  is  so. 

The  operating  theatre  is  crowded ;  much  talk  and  fun, 
and  all  the  cordiality  and  stir  of  youth.  The  surgeon 
with  his  staff  of  assistants  is  there.  In  comes  Ailie; 
one  look  at  her  quiets  and  abates  the  eager  students. 
That  beautiful  old  woman  is  too  much  for  them ;  they 
sit  down,  and  are  dumb,  and  gaze  at  her.  These  rough 
boys  feel  the  power  of  her  presence.  She  walks  in 
quickly,  but  without  haste ;  dressed  in  her  mutch,  her 
neckerchief,  her  white  dimity  short-gown,  her  black 
bombazine  petticoat,  showing  her  white  stockings  and 
her  carpet-shoes.  Behind  her  was  James  with  Rab. 
James  sat  down  in  the  distance,  and  took  that  huge  and 
noble  head  between  his  knees.  Rab  looked  perplexed 
and  dangerous ;  forever  cocking  his  ear  and  dropping  it 
as  fast. 


RAB    AND    HIS    FRIENDS.  17 

Ailie  stepped  up  on  a  seat,  and  laid  herself  on  the 
table,  as  her  friend  the  surgeon  told  her  •  arranged  her- 
self, gave  a  rapid  look  at  James,  shut  her  eyes,  rested 
herself  on  me,  and  took  my  hand.  The  operation  was  at 
once  begun  ;  it  was  necessarily  slow ;  and  chloroform  — 
one  of  God's  best  gifts  to  his  suffering  children — was 
then  unknown.  The  surgeon  did  his  work.  The  pale 
face  showed  its  pain,  but  was  still  and  silent.  Rab's 
soul  was  working  within  him ;  he  saw  that  something 
strange  was  going  on,  —  blood  flowing  from  his  mistress, 
and  she  suffering ;  his  ragged  ear  was  up  and  importu- 
nate ;  he  growled  and  gave  now  and  then  a  sharp, 
impatient  yelp  ;  he  would  have  liked  to  do  something 
to  that  man.  But  James  had  him  firm,  and  gave  him  a 
glower  from  time  to  time,  and  an  intimation  of  a  possible 
kick :  all  the  better  for  James,  it  kept  his  eye  and  his 
mind  off  Ailie. 

It  is  over :  she  is  dressed,  steps  gently  and  decently 
down  from  the  table,  looks  for  James ;  then,  turning  to 
the  surgeon  and  the  students,  she  courtesies,  and  in  a 
low,  clear  voice  begs  their  pardon  if  she  has  behaved  ill. 
The  students  —  all  of  us  —  wept  like  children ;  the  sur- 
geon happed  her  up  carefully ;  and,  resting  on  James  and 
me,  Ailie  went  to  her  room,  Rab  following.  We  put  her 
to  bed. 

James  took  off  his  heavy  shoes,  crammed  with  tackets, 
heel-capped,  and  put  them  carefully  under  the  table,  say- 
ing, ' '  Maister  John,  I  'm  for  nane  o'  yer  strynge  nurse 
bodies  for  Ailie.  I  '11  be  her  nurse,  and  1 311  gang  aboot 
on  my  stockin'  soles  as  canny  as  pussy."  And  so  he 
did ;  and  handy  and  clever,  and  swift  and  tender,  as  any 

B 


18  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

woman  was  that  horny-handed,  snell,  peremptory  little 
man.  Everything  she  got,  he  gave  her;  he  seldom 
slept ;  and  often  I  saw  his  small,  shrewd  eyes  out  of  the 
darkness  fixed  on  her.  As  before,  they  spoke  little. 

Rab  behaved  well,  never  moving,  showing  us  how 
meek  and  gentle  he  could  be,  and  occasionally,  in  his 
sleep,  letting  us  know  that  he  was  demolishing  some 
adversary.  He  took  a  walk  with  me  every  day,  gener- 
ally to  the  Candlemaker  Row ;  but  he  was  sombre  and 
mild ;  declined  doing  battle,  though  some  fit  cases  of- 
fered, and  indeed  submitted  to  sundry  indignities ;  and 
was  always  very  ready  to  turn,  and  came  faster  back,  and 
trotted  up  the  stair  with  much  lightness,  and  went  straight 
to  that  door. 

Jess,  the  mare,  had  been  sent,  with  her  weather-worn 
cart,  to  Howgate,  and  had  doubtless  her  own  dim  and 
placid  meditations  and  confusions  on  the  absence  of  her 
master  and  Rab,  and  her  unnatural  freedom  from  the 
road  and  her  cart. 

For  some  days  Ailie  did  well.  The  wound  healed  "  by 
the  first  intention  " ;  for,  as  James  said,  "  Oor  Ailie's 
skin  's  ower  clean  to  beil."  The  students  came  in  quiet 
and  anxious,  and  surrounded  her  bed.  She  said  she 
liked  to  see  their  young,  honest  faces.  The  surgeon 
dressed  her,  and  spoke  to  her  in  his  own  short,  kind  way, 
pitying  her  through  his  eyes,  Rab  and  James  outside  the 
circle,  —  Rab  being  now  reconciled,  and  even  cordial, 
and  having  made  up  his  mind  that  as  yet  nobody  re- 
quired worrying,  but,  as  you  may  suppose,  semper  para- 
tus. 

So  far,  well:  but,  four  days  after  the  operation,  my 


EAB   AND   HIS    FRIENDS.  19 

patient  had  a  sudden  and  long  shivering,  a  "  groosin'," 
as  she  called  it.  I  saw  her  soon  after ;  her  eyes  were 
too  bright,  her  cheek  colored;  she  was  restless,  and 
ashamed  of  being  so ;  the  balance  was  lost ;  mischief  had 
begun.  On  looking  at  the  wound,  a  blush  of  red  told 
the  secret;  her  pulse  was  rapid,  her  breathing  anxious 
and  quick,  she  wasn't  herself,  as  she  said,  and  was 
vexed  at  her  restlessness.  We  tried  what  we  could. 
James  did  everything,  was  everywhere,  never  in  the  way, 
never  out  of  it.  Rab  subsided  under  the  table  into  a 
dark  place  and  was  motionless,  all  but  his  eye,  which 
followed  every  one.  Ailie  got  worse;  began  to  wan- 
der in  her  mind,  gently ;  was  more  demonstrative  in 
her  ways  to  James,  rapid  in  her  questions,  and  sharp 
at  times.  He  was  vexed,  and  said,  "  She  was  never 
that  way  afore  ;  no  never."  For  a  time  she  knew  her 
head  was  wrong,  and  was  always  asking  our  pardon,  — 
the  dear  gentle  old  woman :  then  delirium  set  in  strong, 
without  pause.  Her  brain  gave  way,  and  then  came 
that  terrible  spectacle, — 

The  intellectual  power  through  words  and  things 
"Went  sounding  on  its  dim  and  perilous  way; 

she  sang  bits  of  old  songs  and  Psalms,  stopping  suddenly, 
mingling  the  Psalms  of  David,  and  the  diviner  words  of 
his  Son  and  Lord,  with  homely  odds  and  ends  and  scraps 
of  ballads. 

Nothing  more  touching,  or  in  a  sense  more  strangely 
beautiful,  did  I  ever  witness.  Her  tremulous,  rapid, 
affectionate,  eager  Scotch  voice,  —  the  swift,  aimless, 
bewildered  mind,  the  baffled  utterance,  the  bright  and 


20  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

perilous  eye ;  some  wild  words,  some  household  cares, 
something  for  James,  the  names  of  the  dead,  Rab  called 
rapidly  and  in  a  "  fremyt "  voice,  and  he  starting  up, 
surprised,  and  slinking  off  as  if  he  were  to  blame  some- 
how, or  had  been  dreaming  he  heard ;  many  eager  ques- 
tions and  beseechings  which  James  and  I  could  make 
nothing  of,  and  on  which  she  seemed  to  set  her  all,  and 
then  sink  back  ununderstood.  It  was  very  sad,  but 
better  than  many  things  that  are  not  called  sad.  James 
hovered  about,  put  out  and  miserable,  but  active  and 
exact  as  ever ;  read  to  her,  when  there  was  a  lull,  short 
bits  from  the  Psalms,  prose  and  metre,  chanting  the  lat- 
ter in  his  own  rude  and  serious  way,  showing  great 
knowledge  of  the  fit  words,  bearing  up  like  a  man,  and 
doating  over  her  as  his  "ain  Ailie."  "Ailie,  ma  wo- 
man !  "  "  Ma  ain  bonnie  wee  dawtie  !  " 

The  end  was  drawing  on ;  the  golden  bowl  was  break- 
ing ;  the  silver  cord  was  fast  being  loosed  :  that  animula 
blandula,  tagula,  hospes,  comesque,  was  about  to  flee. 
The  body  and  soul  —  companions  for  sixty  years  —  were 
being  sundered,  and  taking  leave.  She  was  walking, 
alone,  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  into  which  one 
day  we  must  all  enter,  —  and  yet  she  was  not  alone,  for 
we  know  whose  rod  and  staff  were  comforting  her. 

One  night  she  had  fallen  quiet,  and  as  we  hoped 
asleep  ;  her  eyes  were  shut.  TTe  put  down  the  gas,  and 
sat  watching  her.  Suddenly  she  sat  up  in  bed,  and 
taking  a  bed-gown  which  was  lying  on  it  rolled  up,  she 
held  it  eagerly  to  her  breast,  —  to  the  right  side.  TTe 
could  see  her  eyes  bright  with  surprising  tenderness  and 
joy,  bending  over  this  bundle  of  clothes.  She  held  it  as 


RAB   AND    HIS    FRIENDS.  21 

a  woman  holds  her  sucking  child ;  opening  out  her 
nightgown  impatiently,  and  holding  it  close,  and  brood- 
ing over  it,  and  murmuring  foolish  little  words,  as  over 
one  whom  his  mother  comforteth,  and  who  sucks  and  is 
satisfied.  It  was  pitiful  and  strange  to  see  her  wasted, 
dying  look,  keen  and  yet  vague,  — her  immense  love. 

"  Preserve  me  !  "  groaned  James,  giving  way.  And 
then  she  rocked  back  and  forward,  as  if  to  make  it  sleep, 
hushing  it,  and  wasting  on  it  her  infinite  fondness. 

"  Wae  's  me,  doctor^;  I  declare  she 's  thinkin'  it  Js 
that  bairn." 

"  What  bairn  ?  " 

"The  only  bairn  we  ever  had;  our  wee  Mysie,  and 
she  's  in  the  Kingdom  forty  years  and  mair." 

It  was  plainly  true ;  the  pain  in  the  breast  telling  its 
urgent  story  to  a  bewildered,  ruined  brain,  was  misread 
and  mistaken ;  it  suggested  to  her  the  uneasiness  of  a 
breast  full  of  milk,  and  then  the  child ;  and  so  again 
once  more  they  were  together,  and  she  had  her  ain  wee 
Mysie  in  her  bosom. 

This  was  the  close.  She  sank  rapidly :  the  delirium 
left  her  ;  but,  as  she  whispered,  she  was  "  clean  silly  "  : 
it  was  the  lightning  before  the  final  darkness.  After 
having  for  some  time  lain  still,  her  eyes  shut,  she  said, 
"  James  !  "  He  came  close  to  her,  and  lifting  up  her 
calm,  clear,  beautiful  eyes,  she  gave  him  a  long  look, 
turned  to  me  kindly  but  shortly,  looked  for  Rab,  but 
could  not  see  him,  then  turned  to  her  husband  again,  as 
if  she  would  never  leave  off  looking,  shut  her  eyes,  and 
composed  herself.  She  lay  for  some  time  breathing 
quick,  and  passed  away  so  gently  that  when  we  thought 


22  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

she  was  gone,  James,  in  his  old-fashioned  way,  held  the 
mirror  to  her  face.  After  a  long  pause,  one  small  spot 
of  dimness  was  breathed  out ;  it  vanished  away,  and 
never  returned,  leaving  the  blank,  clear  darkness  of  the 
mirror  without  a  stain.  "  What  is  our  life  ?  it  is  even  a 
vapor,  which  appeareth  for  a  little  time,  and  then  van- 
isheth  away." 

Rab  all  this  time  had  been  full  awake  and  motion- 
less ;  he  came  forward  beside  us :  Ailie's  hand,  which 
James  had  held,  was  hanging  down  ;  it  was  soaked  with 
his  tears  ;  Rab  licked  it  all  over  carefully,  looked  at  her, 
and  returned  to  his  place  under  the  table. 

James  and  1  sat,  I  don't  know  how  long,  but  for  some 
time,  saying  nothing.  He  started  up  abruptly,  and 
with  some  noise  went  to  the  table,  and  putting  his  right 
fore  and  middle  fingers  each  into  a  shoe,  pulled  them 
out,  and  put  them  on,  breaking  one  of  the  leather  latch- 
ets,  and  muttering  in  anger,  "  I  never  did  the  like  o'  that 
afore ! " 

I  believe  he  never  did ;  nor  after  either.  "  Rab  ! " 
he  said  -roughly,  and  pointing  with  his  thumb  to  the  bot- 
tom of  the  bed.  Rab  leapt  up,  and  settled  himself,  his 
head  and  eye  to  the  dead  face.  "Maister  John,  ye '11 
wait  for  me,"  said  the  carrier,  and  disappeared  in  the 
darkness,  thundering  down  stairs  in  his  heavy  shoes.  I 
ran  to  a  front  window  :  there  he  was,  already  round  the 
house  and  out  at  the  gate,  fleeing  like  a  shadow. 

I  was  afraid  about  him,  and  yet  not  afraid ;  so  I  sat 
down  beside  Rab,  and,  being  wearied,  fell  asleep.  I 
awoke  from  a  sudden  noise  outside.  It  was  November, 
and  there  had  been  a  heavy  fall  of  snow.  Rab  was  in 


KAB    AND    HIS    FRIENDS.  23 

statu  quo  ;  he  heard  the  noise  too,  and  plainly  knew  it, 
but  never  moved.  I  looked  out ;  and  there,  at  the  gate, 
in  the  dim  morning,  —  for  the  snn  was  not  up,  —  was 
Jess  and  the  cart,  a  cloud  of  steam  rising  from  the  old 
mare.  I  did  not  see  James  ;  he  was  already  at  the  door, 
and  came  up  the  stairs,  and  met  me.  It  was  less  than 
three  hours  since  he  left,  and  he  must  have  posted  out  — 
who  knows  how  ? —  to  Howgate,  full  nine  miles  off,  yoked 
Jess,  and  driven  her  astonished  into  town.  He  had  an 
armful  of  blankets,  and  was  streaming  with  perspiration. 
He  nodded  to  me,  spread  out  on  the  floor  two  pairs  of 
clean  old  blankets,  having  at  their  corners,  "  A.  G.,  1794," 
in  large  letters  in  red  worsted.  These  were  the  initials 
of  Alison  Gramme,  and  James  may  have  looked  in  at  her 
from  without  —  himself  unseen  but  not  unthought  of — 
when  he  was  "  wat,  wat,  and  weary,"  and  after  having 
walked  many  miles  over  the  hills,  may  have  seen  her 
sitting  while  "a'  the  lave  were  sleepin'" ;  and  by  the 
firelight  working  her  name  on  the  blankets,  for  her  ain 
James's  bed. 

He  motioned  Rab  down,  and,  taking  his  wife  in  his 
arms,  laid  her  in  the  blankets,  and  happed  her  carefully 
and  firmly  up,  leaving  the  face  uncovered ;  and  then  lift- 
ing her,  he  nodded  again  sharply  to  me,  and,  with  a  re- 
solved but  utterly  miserable  face,  strode  along  the  pas- 
sage, and  down  stairs,  followed  by  Rab.  I  followed  with 
a  light ;  but  he  did  n't  need  it.  I  went  out,  holding  stu- 
pidly the  candle  in  my  hand  in  the  calm,  frosty  air ;  we 
were  soon  at  the  gate.  I  could  have  helped  him,  but  I 
saw  he  was  not  to  be  meddled  with,  and  he  was  strong, 
and  did  not  need  it.  He  laid  her  down  as  tenderly,  as 


LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

safely,  as  he  had  lifted  her  out  ten  days  before,  —  as  ten- 
derly as  when  he  had  her  first  in  his  arms  when  she  was 
only  "  A.  G.,"  —  sorted  her,  leaving  that  beautiful  sealed 
face  open  to  the  heavens ;  and  then  taking  Jess  by  the 
head,  he  moved  away.  He  did  not  notice  me,  neither 
did  Rab,  who  presided  behind  the  cart. 

I  stood  till  they  passed  through  the  long  shadow  of 
the  College,  and  turned  up  Nicholson  Street.  I  heard 
the  solitary  cart  sound  through  the  streets,  and  die  away 
and  come  again ;  I  returned,  thinking  of  that  company 
going  up  Libberton  Brae,  then  along  Roslin  Muir,  the 
morning  light  touching  the  Pentlands  and  making  them 
like  on-looking  ghosts ;  then  down  the  hill  through  Auch- 
indinny  woods,  past  "  haunted  Woodhouselee  ";  and  as 
daybreak  came  sweeping  up  the  bleak  Lammermuirs,  and 
fell  on  his  own  door,  the  company  would  stop,  and  James 
would  take  the  key,  and  lift  Ailie  up  again,  laying  her  on 
her  own  bed,  and,  having  put  Jess  up,  would  return  with 
Rab  and  shut  the  door. 

James  buried  Ms  wife  with  his  neighbors  mourning, 
Rab  inspecting  the  solemnity  from  a  distance.  It  was 
snow,  and  that  black,  ragged  hole  would  look  strange  in 
the  midst  of  the  swelling,  spotless  cushion  of  white. 
James  looked  after  everything;  then  rather  suddenly 
fell  ill,  and  took  to  bed ;  was  insensible  when  the  doctor 
came,  and  soon  died.  A  sort  of  low  fever  was  prevailing 
in  the  village,  and  his  want  of  sleep,  his  exhaustion,  and 
his  misery  made  him  apt  to  take  it.  The  grave  was  not 
difficult  to  reopen.  A  fresh  fall  of  snow  had  again  made 
all  things  white  and  smooth ;  Rab  once  more  looked  on, 
and  slunk  home  to  the  stable. 


RAB   AND   HIS    FRIENDS.  25 

And  what  of  Rab  ?  I  asked  for  him  next  week  of  the 
new  carrier  who  got  the  good-will  of  James's  business, 
and  was  now  master  of  Jess  and  her  cart.  "  How  's 
Rab  ?  "  He  put  me  off,  and  said  rather  rudely,  "  What 's 
your  business  wi'  the  dowg  ?  "  I  was  not  to  be  so  put 
off.  "  Where  's  Rab  ?  "  He,  getting  confused  and  red, 
and  intermeddling  with  his  hair,  said,  "  'Deed,  sir,  Rab 's 
deid."  "Dead!  what  did  he  die  of?"  "Weel,  sir," 
said  he,  getting  redder,  "he  didna  exactly  dee;  he  was 
killed.  I  had  to  brain  him  wi'  a  rack-pin ;  there  was  nae 
doin'  wi'  him.  He  lay  in  the  treviss  wi'  the  mear,  and 
wadna  come  oot.  I  tempit  him  wi'  kail  and  meat,  but  he 
wad  tak  naething,  and  keepit  me  frae  feedin'  the  beast, 
and  he  was  aye  gur  gurrin',  and  grup  gruppin'  me  by  the 
legs.  I  was  laith  to  make  awa  wi'  the  auld  dowg,  his 
like  wasna  atween  this  and  Thornhill,  —  but,  'deed,  sir,  I 
could  do  naething  else." 

I  believed  him.  Fit  end  for  Rab,  quick  and  complete. 
His  teeth  and  his  friends  gone,  why  should  he  keep  the 
peace  and  be  civil  ? 


VOL.  IV- 


A   ROMANCE   OF   REAL   LIFE. 

BY    WILLIAM    D.    HOWELLS. 

JT  was  long  past  the  twilight  hour,  which  has 
been  elsewhere  mentioned  as  so  oppressive  in 
suburban  places,  and  it  was  even  too  late  for 
visitors,  when  a  resident,  whom  I  shall  briefly  describe 
as  the  Contributor,  was  startled  by  a  ring  at  liis  door,  in 
the  vicinity  of  one  of  our  great  maritime  cities,  —  say 
Plymouth  or  Manchester.  As  any  thoughtful  person 
would  have  done  upon  the  like  occasion,  he  ran  over  his 
acquaintance  in  his  mind,  speculating  whether  it  were 
such  or  such  a  one,  and  dismissing  the  whole  list  of  im- 
probabilities, before  laying  down  the  book  he  was  read- 
ing, and  answering  the  bell.  TThen  at  last  he  did  this, 
he  was  rewarded  by  the  apparition  of  an  utter  stranger 
on  his  threshold,  —  a  gaunt  figure  of  forlorn  and  curious 
smartness  towering  far  above  him,  that  jerked  him  a  nod 
of  the  head,  and  asked  if  Mr.  Hapford  lived  there.  The 
face  which  the  lamplight  revealed  was  remarkable  for  a 
harsh  two  days'  growth  of  beard,  and  a  single  bloodshot 
eye;  yet  it  was  not  otherwise  a  sinister  countenance, 
and  there  was  something  in  the  strange  presence  that 


A    BOMANCE    OF    REAL    LIFE.  27 

appealed  and  touched.  The  contributor,  revolving  the 
facts  vaguely  in  his  mind,  was  not  sure,  after  all,  that  j , 
was  not  the  man's  clothes  rather  than  his  expression  that 
softened  him  towards  the  rugged  visage :  they  were  so 
tragically  cheap,  and  the  misery  of  helpless  needlewomen 
and  the  poverty  and  ignorance  of  the  purchaser  were  so 
apparent  in  their  shabby  newness,  of  which  they  appeared 
still  conscious  enough  to  have  led  the  way  to  the  very 
window,  in  the  Semitic  quarter  of  the  city,  where  they 
had  lain  ticketed,  "This  nobby  suit  for  $15." 

But  the  stranger's  manner  put  both  his  face  and  his 
clothes  out  of  mind,  and  claimed  a  deeper  interest  when, 
being  answered  that  the  person  for  whom  he  asked  did 
not  live  there,  he  set  his  bristling  lips  hard  together,  and 
sighed  heavily. 

"  They  told  me/*  he  said,  in  a  hopeless  way,  "  that  he 
lived  on  this  street,  and  I  've  been  to  every  other  house. 
I  'm  very  anxious  to  find  him,  Cap'n,"  —  the  contributor, 
of  course,  had  no  claim  to  the  title  with  which  he  was 
thus  decorated,  —  "  for  I  've  a  daughter  living  with  him, 
and  I  want  to  see  her;  I  've  just  got  home  from  a  two 
years'  voyage,  and"  —  there  was  a  struggle  of  the 
Adam's-apple  in  the  man's  gaunt  throat  —  "I  find  she  's 
about  all  there  is  left  of  my  family." 

How  complex  is  every  human  motive !  This  contribu- 
tor had  been  lately  thinking,  whenever  he  turned  the 
pages  of  some  foolish  traveller,  —  some  empty  prattler  of 
Southern  or  Eastern  lands,  where  all  sensation  was  long 
ago  exhausted,  and  the  oxygen  has  perished  from  every 
sentiment,  so  has  it  been  breathed  and  breathed  again,  — 
that  nowadays  the  wise  adventurer  sat  down  beside  his 


23  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

own  register  and  waited  for  incidents  to  seek  him  out. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  the  cultivation  of  a  patient  and  re- 
ceptive spirit  was  the  sole  condition  needed  to  insure  the 
occurrence  of  all  manner  of  surprising  facts  within  the 
range  of  one's  own  personal  knowledge ;  that  not  only 
the  Greeks  were  at  our  doors,  but  the  fairies  and  the 
genii,  and  all  the  people  of  romance,  who  had  but  to  be 
hospitably  treated  in  order  to  develop  the  deepest  inter- 
est  of  fiction,  and  to  become  the  characters  of  plots  so 
ingenious  that  the  most  cunning  invention  were  poor 
beside  them.  I  myself  am  not  so  confident  of  this,  and 
would  rather  trust  Mr.  Charles  Reade,  say,  for  my 
amusement  than  any  chance  combination  of  events.  But 
I  should  be  afraid  to  say  how  much  his  pride  in  the 
character  of  the  stranger's  sorrows,  as  proof  of  the  cor- 
rectness of  his  theory,  prevailed  with  the  contributor  to 
ask  1dm  to  come  in  and  sit  down ;  though  I  hope  that 
some  abstract  impulse  of  humanity,  some  compassionate 
and  unselfish  care  for  the  man's  misfortunes  as  misfor- 
tunes, was  not  wholly  wanting.  Indeed,  the  helpless 
simplicity  with  which  he  had  confided  his  case  might 
have  touched  a  harder  heart.  "  Thank  you,"  said  the 
poor  fellow,  after  a  moment's  hesitation.  "I  believe  I 
will  come  in.  I  've  been  on  foot  all  day,  and  after  such 
a  long  voyage  it  makes  a  man  dreadfully  sore  to  walk 
about  so  much.  Perhaps  you  can  think  of  a  ^Lr.  Hap- 
ford  living  somewhere  in  the  neighborhood." 

He  sat  down,  and,  after  a  pondering  silence,  in  which 
he  had  remained  with  his  head  fallen  upon  his  breast, 
"  My  name  is  Jonathan  Tinker,"  he  said,  with  the  un- 
affected air  which  had  already  impressed  the  contributor, 


A    ROMANCE    OF    REAL    LIFE.  29 

and  as  if  lie  felt  that  some  form  of  introduction  was 
necessary,  "and  the  girl  that  I  want  to  find  is  Julia 
Tinker."  Then  he  said,  resuming  the  eventful  personal 
history  which  the  listener  exulted  while  he  regretted  to 
hear  :  "  You  see,  I  shipped  first  to  Liverpool,  and  there 
I  heard  from  my  family ;  and  then  I  shipped  again  for 
Hong-Kong,  and  after  that  I  never  heard  a  word:  I 
seemed  to  miss  the  letters  everywhere.  This  morning, 
at  four  o'clock,  I  left  my  ship  as  soon  as  she  had  hauled 
into  the  dock,  and  hurried  up  home.  The  house  was 
shut,  and  not  a  soul  in  it ;  and  I  did  n't  know  what  to 
do,  and  I  sat  down  on  the  doorstep  to  wait  till  the 
neighbors  woke  up,  to  ask  them  what  had  become  of  my 
family.  And  the  first  one  come  out  he  told  me  my  wife 
had  been  dead  a  year  and  a  half,  and  the  baby  I  'd  never 
seen,  with  her ;  and  one  of  my  boys  was  dead  ;  and  he 
did  n't  know  where  the  rest  of  the  children  was,  but  he  'd 
heard  two  of  the  little  ones  was  with  a  family  in  the 
city." 

The  man  mentioned  these  things  with  the  half-apolo- 
getic air  observable  in  a  certain  kind  of  Americans  when 
some  accident  obliges  them  to  confess  the  infirmity  of 
the  natural  feelings.  They  do  not  ask  your  sympathy, 
and  you  offer  it  quite  at  your  own  risk,  with  a  chance  of 
having  it  thrown  back  upon  your  hands.  The  con- 
tributor assumed  the  risk  so  far  as  to  say,  "  Pretty 
rough  !  "  when  the  stranger  paused ;  and  perhaps  these 
homely  words  were  best  suited  to  reach  the  homely  heart. 
The  man's  quivering  lips  closed  hard  again,  a  kind  of 
spasm  passed  over  his  dark  face,  and  then  two  very 
small  drops  of  brine  shone  upon  his  weather-worn 


30  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

cheeks.  This  demonstration,  into  which  he  had  been 
surprised,  seemed  to  stand  for  the  passion  of  tears  into 
which  the  emotional  races  fall  at  such  times.  He  opened 
his  lips  with  a  kind  of  dry  click,  and  went  on  :  — 

"  I  hunted  about  the  whole  forenoon  in  the  city,  and 
at  last  I  found  the  children.  I  'd  been  gone  so  long 
they  did  n't  know  me,  and  somehow  I  thought  the  peo- 
ple they  were  with  weren't  over-glad  I'd  turned  up. 
Finally  the  oldest  child  told  me  that  Julia  was  living 
with  a  Mr.  Hapford  on  this  street,  and  I  started  out 
here  to-night  to  look  her  up.  If  I  can  find  her,  I  'm  all 
right.  I  can  get  the  family  together,  then,  and  start 
new." 

"It  seems  rather  odd,"  mused  the  listener  aloud, 
"  that  the  neighbors  let  them  break  up  so,  and  that  they 
should  all  scatter  as  they  did." 

"Well,  it  ain't  so  curious  as  it  seems,  Cap'n.  There 
was  money  for  them  at  the  owners',  all  the  time ;  I  'd 
left  part  of  my  wages  when  1  sailed ;  but  they  did  n't 
know  how  to  get  at  it,  and  what  could  a  parcel  of  chil- 
dren do  ?  Julia  's  a  good  girl,  and  when  I  find  her  I  'm 
all  right." 

The  writer  could  only  repeat  that  there  was  no  Mr. 
Hapford  living  on  that  street,  and  never  had  been,  so  far 
as  he  knew.  Yet  there  might  be  such  a  person  in  the 
neighborhood ;  and  they  would  go  out  together,  and  ask 
at  some  of  the  houses  about.  But  the  stranger  must 
first  take  a  glass  of  wine ;  for  he  looked  used  up. 

The  sailor  awkwardly  but  civilly  enough  protested 
that  he  did  not  want  to  give  so  much  trouble,  but  took 
the  glass,  and,  as  he  put  it  to  his  lips,  said  formally,  as 


A   ROMANCE    OF    REAL    LIFE.  31 

if  it  were  a  toast  or  a  kind  of  grace,  "  I  hope  I  may  have 
the  opportunity  of  returning  the  compliment."  The  con- 
tributor thanked  him ;  though,  as  he  thought  of  all  the 
circumstances  of  the  case,  and  considered  the  cost  at 
which  the  stranger  had  come  to  enjoy  his  politeness,  he 
felt  little  eagerness  to  secure  the  return  of  the  compli- 
ment at  the  same  price,  and  added,  with  the  consequence 
of  another  set  phrase,  "  Not  at  all."  But  the  thought 
had  made  him  the  more  anxious  to  befriend  the  luckless 
soul  fortune  had  cast  in  his  way ;  and  so  the  two  sallied 
out  together,  and  rang  door-bells  wherever  lights  were 
still  seen  burning  in  the  windows,  and  asked  the  aston- 
ished people  who  answered  their  summons  whether  any 
Mr.  Hapford  were  known  to  live  in  the  neighborhood. 

And  although  the  search  for  this  gentleman  proved 
vain,  the  contributor  could  not  feel  that  an  expedition 
which  set  familiar  objects  in  such  novel  lights  was  alto- 
gether a  failure.  He  entered  so  intimately  into  the  cares 
and  anxieties  of  his  protege,  that  at  times  he  felt  himself 
in  some  inexplicable  sort  a  shipmate  of  Jonathan  Tinker, 
and  almost  personally  a  partner  of  his  calamities.  The 
estrangement  of  all  things  which  takes  place,  within 
doors  and  without,  about  midnight,  may  have  helped  to 
qast  this  doubt  upon  his  identity;  —  he  seemed  to  be 
visiting  now  for  the  first  time  the  streets  and  neighbor- 
hoods nearest  his  own,  and  his  feet  stumbled  over  the 
accustomed  walks.  In  his  quality  of  houseless  wanderer, 
and,  —  so  far  as  appeared  to  others,  —  possibly,  worth- 
less vagabond,  he  also  got  a  new  and  instructive  effect 
upon  the  faces  which,  in  his  real  character,  he  knew  so 
well  by  their  looks  of  neighborly  greeting ;  and  it  is  his 


32  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

belief  that  the  first  hospitable  prompting  of  the  human 
heart  is  to  shut  the  door  in  the  eyes  of  homeless  strangers 
who  present  themselves  after  eleven  o'clock.  By  that 
time  the  servants  are  all  abed,  and  the  gentleman  of  the 
house  answers  the  bell,  and  looks  out  with  a  loath  and 
bewildered  face,  which  gradually  changes  to  one  of  sus- 
picion, and  of  wonder  as  to  what  those  fellows  can  possi- 
bly want  of  him,  till  at  last  the  prevailing  expression  is 
one  of  contrite  desire  to  atone  for  the  first  reluctance  by 
any  sort  of  service.  The  contributor  professes  to  have 
observed  these  changing  phases  in  the  visages  of  those 
whom  he  that  night  called  from  their  dreams,  or  arrested 
in  the  act  of  going  to  bed ;  and  he  drew  the  conclusion 
—  very  proper  for  his  imaginable  connection  with  the 
garroting  and  other  adventurous  brotherhoods  —  that 
the  most  flattering  moment  for  knocking  on  the  head 
people  who  answer  a  late  riug  at  night  is  either  in  their 
first  selfish  bewilderment,  or  their  final  self-abandonment 
to  their  better  impulses.  It  does  not  seem  to  have  oc- 
curred to  him  that  he  would  himself  have  been  a  much 
more  favorable  subject  for  the  predatory  arts  than  any  of 
his  neighbors,  if  his  shipmate,  the  unknown  companion 
of  his  researches  for  Mr.  Hapford,  had  been  at  all  so 
minded.  But  the  faith  of  the  gaunt  giant  upon  which  he 
reposed  was  good,  and  the  contributor  continued  to  wan- 
der about  with  him  in  perfect  safety.  Not  a  soul  among 
those  they  asked  had  ever  heard  of  a  Mr.  Hapford,  — 
far  less  of  a  Julia  Tinker  living  with  him.  But  they  all 
listened  to  the  contributor's  explanation  with  interest 
and  eventual  sympathy;  and  in  truth, — briefly  told, 
with  a  word  now  and  then  thrown  in  by  Jonathan  Tinker, 


A   EOMANCE    OF    BEAL    LIFE.  33 

who  kept  at  the  bottom  of  the  steps,  showing  like  a 
gloomy  spectre  in  the  night,  or,  in  his  grotesque  length 
and  gauntness,  like  the  other's  shadow  cast  there  by  the 
lamplight, — it  was  a  story  which  could  hardly  fail  to 
awaken  pity. 

At  last,  after  ringing  several  bells  where  there  were  no 
lights,  in  the  mere  wantonness  of  good-will,  and  going 
away  before  they  could  be  answered  (it  would  be  enter- 
taining to  know  what  dreams  they  caused  the  sleepers 
within),  there  seemed  to  be  nothing  for  it  but  to  give  up 
the  search  till  morning,  and  go  to  the  main  street  and 
wait  for  the  last  horse-car  to  the  city. 

Thera,  seated  upon  the  curbstone,  Jonathan  Tinker, 
being  plied  with  a  few  leading  questions,  told  in  hints 
and  scraps  the  story  of  his  hard  life,  which  was  at  present 
that  of  a  second  mate,  and  had  been  that  of  a  cabin-boy 
and  of  a  seaman  before  the  mast.  The  second  mate's 
place  he  held  to  be  the  hardest  aboard  ship.  You  got 
only  a  few  dollars  more  than  the  men,  and  you  did  not 
rank  with  the  officers ;  you  took  your  meals  alone,  and 
in  everything  you  belonged  by  yourself.  The  men  did 
not  respect  you,  and  sometimes  the  captain  abused  you 
awfully  before  the  passengers.  The  hardest  captain  that 
Jonathan  Tinker  ever  sailed  with  was  Captain  Gooding 
of  the  Cape.  It  had  got  to  be  so  that  no  man  would 
ship  second  mate  under  Captain  Gooding ;  and  Jonathan 
Tinker  was  with  him  only  one  voyage.  When  he  had 
been  home  awhile,  he  saw  an  advertisement  for  a  second 
mate,  and  he  went  round  to  the  owners'.  They  had 
kept  it  secret  who  the  captain  was ;  but  there  was  Cap- 
tain Gooding  in  the  owners'  office.  "  Why,  here 's  the 
2*  0 


34  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

man,  now,  that  I  want  for  a  second  mate/'  said  he, 
when  Jonathan  Tinker  entered ;  "  he  knows  me." 
"  Captain  Gooding,  I  know  von  'most  too  well  to  want 
to  sail  under  you,"  answered  Jonathan.  "  I  might  go  if 
I  had  n't  been  with  YOU  one  voyage  too  many  already." 

"  And  then  the  men !  "  said  Jonathan,  "  the  men 
coming  aboard  drunk,  and  having  to  be  pounded  sober ! 
And  the  hardest  of  the  fight  falls  on  the  second  mate ! 
Why,  there  is  n't  an  inch  of  me  that  has  n't  been  cut 
over  or  smashed  into  a  jell.  I  've  had  three  ribs  broken ; 
I  've  got  a  scar  from  a  knife  on  my  cheek ;  and  I  've 
been  stabbed  bad  enough,  half  a  dozen  times,  to  lay  me 
up." 

Here  he  gave  a  sort  of  desperate  laugh,  as  if  the  no- 
tion of  so  much  misery  and  such  various  mutilation  were 
too  grotesque  not  to  be  amusing.  "  Well,  what  can  you 
do  ?  "  he  went  on.  "  If  you  don't  strike,  the  men  think 
you  're  afraid  of  them ;  and  so  you  have  to  begin  hard 
and  go  on  hard.  I  always  tell  a  man,  '  Xow,  my  man,  I 
always  begin  with  a  man  the  way  I  mean  to  keep  on. 
You  do  your  duty  and  you're  all  right.  But  if  you 
don't  — '  Well,  the  men  ain't  Americans  any  more,  — 
Dutch,  Spaniards,  Chinese,  Portugee,  —  and  it  ain't  like 
abusing  a  white  man." 

Jonathan  Tinker  was  plainly  part  of  the  horrible 
tyranny  which  we  all  know  exists  on  shipboard  ;  and  his 
listener  respected  him  the  more  that,  though  he  had 
heart  enough  to  be  ashamed  of  it,  he  was  too  honest  not 
to  own  it, 

Why  did  he  still  follow  the  sea  ?  Because  he  did  not 
know  what  else  to  do.  When  he  was  younger,  he  used 


A   ROMANCE    OF    REAL    LIFE.  35 

to  love  it,  but  now  he  hated  it.  Yet  there  was  not  a 
prettier  life  in  the  world  if  you  got  to  be  captain.  He 
used  to  hope  for  that  once,  but  not  now;  though  he 
thought  he  could  navigate  a  ship.  Only  let  him  get  his 
family  together  again,  and  he  would  —  yes,  he  would  — 
try  to  do  something  ashore. 

No  car  had  yet  come  in  sight,  and  so  the  contributor 
suggested  that  they  should  walk  to  the  car-office,  and 
look  in  the  Directory  which  is  kept  there  for  the  name 
of  Hapford,  in  search  of  whom  it  had  already  been  ar- 
ranged that  they  should  renew  their  acquaintance  on  the 
morrow.  Jonathan  Tinker,  when  they  had  reached  the 
office,  heard  with  constitutional  phlegm  that  the  name  of 
the  Hapford  for  whom  he  inquired  was  not  in  the  Direc- 
tory. "  Never  mind,"  said  the  other,  "  come  round  to  my 
house  in  the  morning.  We  '11  find  him  yet."  So  they 
parted  with  a  shake  of  the  hand,  the  second  mate  saying 
that  he  believed  he  should  go  down  to  the  vessel  and 
sleep  aboard,  —  if  he  could  sleep,  —  and  murmuring  at 
the  last  moment  the  hope  of  returning  the  compliment, 
while  the  other  walked  homeward,  weary  as  to  the  flesh, 
but,  in  spite  of  his  sympathy  for  Jonathan  Tinker,  very 
elate  in  spirit.  The  truth  is,  —  and  however  disgraceful 
to  human  nature,  let  the  truth  still  be  told,  —  he  had  re- 
curred to  his  primal  satisfaction  in  the  man  as  calamity 
capable  of  being  used  for  such  and  such  literary  ends, 
and,  while  he  pitied  him,  rejoiced  in  him  as  an  episode  of 
real  life  quite  as  striking  and  complete  as  anything  in 
fiction.  It  was  literature  made  to  his  hand.  Nothing 
could  be  better,  he  mused  ;  and  once  more  he  passed  the 
details  of  the  story  in  review,  and  beheld  all  those  pio- 


36  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

tures  which  the  poor  fellow's  artless  words  had  so  vividly 
conjured  up:  he  saw  him  leaping  ashore  in  the  gray 
summer  dawn  as  soon  as  the  ship  hauled  into  the  dock, 
and  making  his  way,  with  his  vague  sea-legs  unaccus- 
tomed to  the  pavements,  up  through  the  silent  and  empty 
city  streets ;  he  imagined  the  tumult  of  fear  and  hope 
which  the  sight  of  the  man's  home  must  have  caused  in 
him,  and  the  benumbing  shock  of  finding  it  blind  and 
deaf  to  all  his  appeals ;  he  saw  him  sitting  down  upon 
what  had  been  his  own  threshold,  and  waiting  in  a  sort 
of  bewildered  patience  till  the  neighbors  should  be  awake, 
while  the  noises  of  the  streets  gradually  arose,  and  the 
wheels  began  to  rattle  over  the  stones,  and  the  milkman 
and  the  ice-man  came  and  went,  and  the  waiting  figure 
began  to  be  stared  at,  and  to  challenge  the  curiosity  of 
the  passing  policeman;  he  fancied  the  opening  of  the 
neighbor's  door,  and  the  slow,  cold  understanding  of  the 
case  ;  the  manner,  whatever  it  was,  in  which  the  sailor 
was  told  that  one  year  before  his  wife  had  died,  with  her 
babe,  and  that  his  children  were  scattered,  none  knew 
where.  As  the  contributor  dwelt  pityingly  upon  these 
things,  but  at  the  same  time  estimated  their  aesthetic 
value  one  by  one,  he  drew  near  the  head  of  his  street, 
and  found  himself  a  few  paces  behind  a  boy  slouching 
onward  through  the  night,  to  whom  he  called  out,  ad- 
venturously, and  with  no  real  hope  of  information,  — 

"  Do  you  happen  to  know  anybody  on  this  street  by 
the  name  of  Hapford  ?  " 

"  Why  no,  not  in  this  town,"  said  the  boy ;  but  he 
added  that  there  was  a  street  by  the  same  name  in  a 
neighboring  suburb,  and  a  Hapford  living  on  it. 


A  ROMANCE    OF   REAL   LIFE.  37 

"By  Jove!"  thought  the  contributor,  "this  is  more 
like  literature  than  ever  " ;  and  he  hardly  knew  whether 
to  be  more  provoked  at  his  own  stupidity  in  not  thinking 
of  a  street  of  the  same  name  in  the  next  village,  or 
delighted  at  the  element  of  fatality  which  the  fact  intro- 
duced into  the  story ;  for  Tinker,  according  to  his  own 
account,  must  have  landed  from  the  cars  a  few  rods 
from  the  very  door  he  was  seeking,  and  so  walked  far- 
ther and  farther  from  it  every  moment.  He  thought  the 
case  so  curious,  that  he  laid  it  briefly  before  the  boy,  who, 
however  he  might  have  been  inwardly  affected,  was  suf- 
ficiently true  to  the  national  traditions  not  to  make  the 
smallest  conceivable  outward  sign  of  concern  in  it. 

At  home,  however,  the  contributor  related  his  adven- 
tures and  the  story  of  Tinker's  life,  adding  the  fact  that 
he  had  just  found  out  where  Mr.  Hapford  lived.  "It 
was  the  only  touch  wanting,"  said  he ;  "  the  whole  thing 
is  now  perfect." 

"It's  too  perfect,"  was  answered  from  a  sad  enthu- 
siasm. "Don't  speak  of  it !  I  can't  take  it  in." 

"  But  the  question  is,"  said  the  contributor,  penitently 
taking  himself  to  task  for  forgetting  the  hero  of  these 
excellent  misfortunes  in  his  delight  over  their  perfection, 
"  how  am  I  to  sleep  to-night,  thinking  of  that  poor  soul's 
suspense  and  uncertainty  ?  Never  mind,  —  I  '11  be  up 
early,  and  run  over  and  make  sure  that  it  is  Tinker's 
Hapford,  before  he  gets  out  here,  and  have  a  pleasant 
surprise  for  him.  Would  it  not  be  a  justifiable  coup 
de  theatre  to  fetch  his  daughter  here,  and  let  her  answer 
his  ring  at  the  door  when  he  comes  in  the  morning  ?  " 

This  plan  was  discouraged.     "  No,  no  ;  let  them  meet 


33  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

in  their  own  way.  Just  take  him  to  Hapford's  house  and 
leave  him/' 

"  Very  well.  But  he 's  too  good  a  character  to  lose 
sight  of.  He 's  got  to  come  back  here  and  tell  us  what 
he  intends  to  do." 

The  birds,  next  morning,  not  having  had  the  second 
mate  on  their  minds  either  as  an  unhappy  man  or  a  most 
fortunate  episode,  but  having  slept  long  and  soundly, 
were  singing  in  a  very  sprightly  way  in  the  wayside 
trees ;  and  the  sweetness  of  their  notes  made  the  con- 
tributor's heart  light  as  he  climbed  the  hill  and  rang  at 
Mr.  Hapford's  door. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  young  girl  of  fifteen  or 
sixteen,  whom  he  knew  at  a  glance  for  the  second  mate's 
daughter,  but  of  whom,  for  form's  sake,  he  asked  if 
there  were  a  girl  named  Julia  Tinker  living  there. 

"My  name's  Julia  Tinker,"  answered  the  maid,  who 
had  rather  a  disappointing  face. 

"  Well,"  said  the  contributor,  "  your  father's  got  back 
from  his  Hong-Kong  voyage." 

"  Hong-Kong  voyage  ?  "  echoed  the  girl,  with  a  stare 
of  helpless  inquiry,  but  no  other  visible  emotion. 

"  Yes.  He  had  never  heard  of  your  mother's  death. 
He  came  home  yesterday  morning,  and  was  looking  for 
you  all  day." 

Julia  Tinker  remained  open-mouthed  but  mute ;  and 
the  other  was  puzzled  at  the  want  of  feeling  shown, 
which  he  could  not  account  for  even  as  a  national  trait. 
"  Perhaps  there 's  some  mistake,"  he  said. 

"  There  must  be,"  answered  Julia  :  "  my  father  has  n't 
been  to  sea  for  a  good  many  years.  My  father,"  she 


A    ROMANCE    Ol'   REAL    LIFE.  39 

added,  with  a  diffidence  indescribably  mingled  with  a 
sense  of  distinction,  —  "  my  father's  in  State's  Prison. 
What  kind  of  looking  man  was  this  ?  " 

The  contributor  mechanically  described  him. 

Julia  Tinker  broke  into  a  loud,  hoarse  laugh.  "  Yes, 
it 's  him,  sure  enough."  And  then,  as  if  the  joke  were 
too  good  to  keep  :  "  Miss  Hapford,  Miss  Hapford,  father 's 
got  out.  Do  come  here  !  "  she  called  into  a  back  room. 

When  Mrs.  Hapford  appeared,  Julia  fell  back,  and, 
having  deftly  caught  a  fly  on  the  door-post,  occupied 
herself  in  plucking  it  to  pieces,  while  she  listened  to  the 
conversation  of  the  others. 

"  It 's  all  true  enough,"  said  Mrs.  Hapford,  when  the 
writer  had  recounted  the  moving  story  of  Jonathan 
Tinker,  "  so  far  as  the  death  of  his  wife  and  baby  goes. 
But  he  has  n't  been  to  sea  for  a  good  many  years,  and  he 
must  have  just  come  out  of  State's  Prison,  where  he  was 
put  for  bigamy.  There 's  always  two  sides  to  a  story, 
you  know ;  but  they  say  it  broke  his  first  wife's  heart, 
and  she  died.  His  friends  don't  want  him  to  find  his 
children,  and  this  girl  especially." 

"  He 's  found  his  children  in  the  city,"  said  the  con- 
tributor, gloomily,  being  at  a  loss  what  to  do  or  say,  in 
view  of  the  wreck  of  his  romance. 

"  O,  he 's  found  'em,  has  he  ? "  cried  Julia,  with 
heightened  amusement.  "  Then  he  '11  have  me  next,  if  I 
don't  pack  and  go." 

"  I  'm  very,  very  sorry,"  said  the  contributor,  secretly 
resolved  never  to  do  another  good  deed,  no  matter  how 
temptingly  the  opportunity  presented  itself.  "  But  you 
may  depend  he  won't  find  out  from  tne  where  you  are. 


40  LITTLE    L 

Of  course  I  had  no  earthly  reason  for  supposing  his  story 
was  not  true." 

"  Of  course,"  said  kind-hearted  Mrs.  Hapford,  mingling 
a  drop  of  honey  with  the  gall  in  the  contributor's  soul, 
"  you  only  did  your  duty." 

And  indeed,  as  he  turned  away,  he  did  not  feel  al- 
together without  compensation.  However  Jonathan 
Tinker  had  fallen  in  his  esteem  as  a  man,  he  had  even 
risen  as  literature.  The  episode  which  had  appeared  so 
perfect  in  its  pathetic  phases  did  not  seem  less  finished 
as  a  farce ;  and  this  person,  to  whom  all  things  of  every- 
day life  presented  themselves  in  periods  more  or  less 
rounded,  and  capable  of  use  as  facts  or  illustrations, 
could  not  but  rejoice  in  these  new  incidents.,  as  dramat- 
ically fashioned  as  the  rest.  It  occurred  to  him  that, 
wrought  into  a  story,  even  better  use  might  be  made  of 
the  facts  now  than  before,  for  they  had  developed  ques- 
tions of  character  and  of  human  nature  which  could  not 
fail  to  interest.  The  more  he  pondered  upon  his 
acquaintance  with  Jonathan  Tinker,  the  more  fascinating 
the  erring  mariner  became,  in  his  complex  truth  and 
falsehood,  his  delicately  blending  shades  of  artifice  and 
nalcete.  He  must,  it  was  felt,  have  believed  to  a  certain 
point  in  his  own  inventions :  nay,  starting  with  that 
groundwork  of  truth,  —  the  fact  that  his  wife  was  reallv 
dead,  and  that  he  had  not  seen  his  family  for  two  years, 
—  why  should  he  not  place  implicit  faith  in  all  the  fic- 
tions reared  upon  it :  It  was  probable  that  he  felt  a 
real  sorrow  for  her  loss,  and  tliat  he  found  a  fair 
consolation  in  depicting  the  circumstances  of  her  death 
so  that  they  should  look  like  his  inevitable  misfortunes 


A   ROMANCE    OF   REAL   LIFE.  41 

rather  than  his  faults.  He  might  well  have  repented  his 
offence  during  those  two  years  of  prison  ;  and  why  should 
he  not  now  cast  their  dreariness  and  shame  out  of  his 
memory,  and  replace  them  with  the  freedom  and  adven- 
ture of  a  two  years'  voyage  to  China,  —  so  probable,  in 
all  respects,  that  the  fact  should  appear  an  impossible 
nightmare  ?  In  the  experiences  of  his  life  he  had  abun- 
dant material  to  furnish  forth  the  facts  of  such  a  voyage, 
and  in  the  weariness  and  lassitude  that  should  follow  a 
day's  walking  equally  after  a  two  years'  voyage  and  two 
years'  imprisonment,  he  had  as  much  physical  proof  in 
favor  of  one  hypothesis  as  the  other.  It  was  doubtless 
true,  also,  as  he  said,  that  he  had  gone  to  his  house  at 
dawn,  and  sat  down  on  the  threshold  of  his  ruined  home  ; 
and  perhaps  he  felt  the  desire  he  had  expressed  to  see 
his  daughter,  with  a  purpose  of  beginning  life  anew; 
and  it  may  have  cost  him  a  veritable  pang  when  he  found 
that  his  little  ones  did  not  know  him.  All  the  sentiments 
of  the  situation  were  such  as  might  persuade  a  lively  fancy 
of  the  truth,  of  its  own  inventions  ;  and  as  he  heard  these 
continually  repeated  by  the  contributor  in  their  search  for 
Mr.  Hapford,  they  must  have  acquired  an  objective  force 
and  repute  scarcely  to  be  resisted.  At  the  same  time, 
there  were  touches  of  nature  throughout  Jonathan  Tin- 
ker's narrative  which  could  not  fail  to  take  the  faith  of 
another.  The  contributor,  in  reviewing  it,  thought  it 
particularly  charming  that  his  mariner  had  not  overdrawn 
himself  or  attempted  to  paint  his  character  otherwise  than 
as  it  probably  was ;  that  he  had  shown  his  ideas  and 
practices  of  life  to  be  those  of  a  second  mate,  nor  more 
nor  less,  without  the  gloss  of  regret  or  the  pretences  to 


42  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

refinement  that  might  be  pleasing  to  the  supposed 
philanthropist  with  whom  he  had  fallen  in.  Captain 
Gooding  was  of  course  a  true  portrait,  and  there  was 
nothing  in  Jonathan  Tinker's  statement  of  the  relations 
of  a  second  mate  to  his  superiors  and  his  inferiors  which 
did  not  agree  perfectly  with  what  the  writer  had  just  read 
in  "  Two  Years  before  the  Mast,"  —  a  book  which  had 
possibly  cast  its  glamour  upon  the  adventure.  He 
admired  also  the  just  and  perfectly  characteristic  air 
of  grief  in  the  bereaved  husband  and  father,  —  those 
occasional  escapes  from  the  sense  of  loss  into  a  brief 
hilarity  and  forgetfulness,  and  those  relapses  into  the 
hovering  gloom,  which  every  one  has  observed  in  this 
poor,  crazy  human  nature  when  oppressed  by  sorrow,  and 
which  it  would  have  been  hard  to  simulate.  But,  above 
all,  he  exulted  in  that  supreme  stroke  of  the  imagination 
given  by  the  second  mate  when,  at  parting,  he  said  he 
believed  he  would  go  down  and  sleep  on  board  the  vessel. 
In  view  of  this,  the  State's  Prison  theory  almost  appeared 
a  malign  and  foolish  scandal. 

Yet  even  if  this  theory  were  correct,  was  the  second 
mate  wholly  answerable  for  beginning  his  life  again  with 
the  imposture  he  had  practised  ?  The  contributor  bad 
either  so  fallen  in  love  with  the  literary  advantages  of  his 
forlorn  deceiver  that  he  would  see  no  moral  obliquity  in 
him,  or  he  had  touched  a  subtler  verity  at  last  in  ponder- 
ing the  affair.  It  seemed  now  no  longer  a  farce,  but  had 
a  pathos  which,  though  very  different  from  that  of  its 
first  aspect,  was  hardly  less  tragical.  Knowing  with 
what  coldness,  or,  at  the  best,  uncaudor,  he  (representing 
Society  in  its  attitude  toward  convicted  Error)  would 


A    ROMANCE    OF    EEAL   LIFE.  43 

have  met  the  fact  had  it  been  owned  to  him  at  first,  he 
had  not  virtue  enough  to  condemn  the  illusory  stranger, 
who  must  have  been  helpless  to  make  at  once  evident 
any  repentance  he  felt  or  good  purpose  he  cherished. 
Was  it  not  one  of  the  saddest  consequences  of  the  man's 
past,  —  a  dark  necessity  of  misdoing,  —  that,  even  with 
the  best  will  in  the  world  to  retrieve  himself,  his  first 
endeavor  must  involve  a  wrong  ?  Might  he  not,  indeed, 
be  considered  a  martyr,  in  some  sort,  to  his  own  admira- 
ble impulses  ?  I  can  see  clearly  enough  where  the  con- 
tributor was  astray  in  this  reasoning,  but  I  can  also 
understand  how  one  accustomed  to  value  realities  only  as 
they  resembled  fables  should  be  won  with  such  pensive 
sophistry ;  and  I  can  certainly  sympathize  with  his  feeling 
that  the  mariner's  failure  to  reappear  according  to  ap- 
pointment added  its  final  and  most  agreeable  charm  to  the 
whole  affair,  and  completed  the  mystery  from  which  the 
man  emerged  and  which  swallowed  him  up  again. 


THE  LUCK   OF   ROARING  CAMP. 

BY  BRET  HARTE. 

I  HERE  was  commotion  in  Roaring  Camp.  It 
j^l  could  not  have  been  a  fight ;  for  in  1850  these 
were  not  novel  enough  to  call  together  the  en- 
tire settlement.  The  ditches  and  claims  were  not  only 
deserted,  but  Tuttle's  grocery  had  contributed  its  gam- 
blers, who,  it  will  be  remembered,  calmly  continued 
their  game  the  day  that  French  Pete  and  Kanaka  Joe 
shot  each  other  to  death  over  the  bar  in  the  front  room. 
The  whole  camp  was  collected  before  a  rude  cabin  on  the 
outer  edge  of  the  clearing.  Conversation  was  carried  on 
in  a  low  tone,  but  the  name  of  a  woman  was  frequently 
repeated.  It  was  a  name  familiar  enough  in  the  camp  : 
"  Cherokee  Sal." 

Perhaps  the  less  said  of  her  the  better.  She  was  a 
coarse,  and,  it  is  to  be  feared,  a  very  sinful  woman. 
But  at  that  time  she  was  the  only  woman  in  Roaring 
Camp,  and  was  just  then  lying  in  sore  extremity  when 
she  most  needed  the  ministration  of  her  own  sex.  Dis- 
solute, abandoned,  and  irreclaimable,  she  was  yet  suffer- 
ing a  martyrdom,  —  hard  enough  to  bear  even  in  the  se- 
clusion and  sexual  sympathy  with  which  custom  veils  it, 


THE  LUCK  OF  ROARING  CAMP.      45 

—  but  now  terrible  in  her  loneliness.  The  primal  curse 
had  come  to  her  in  that  original  isolation  which  must 
have  made  the  punishment  of  the  first  transgression  so 
dreadful.  It  was,  perhaps,  part  of  the  expiation  of  her 
sin,  that  at  a  moment  when  she  most  lacked  her  sex's 
intuitive  sympathy  and  care,  she  met  only  the  half-con- 
temptuous faces  of  masculine  associates.  Yet  a  few  of 
the  spectators  were,  I  think,  touched  by  her  sufferings. 
Sandy  Tipton  thought  it  was  "rough  on  Sal,"  and  in 
the  contemplation  of  her  condition  for  a  moment  rose 
superior  to  the  fact  that  he  had  an  ace  and  two  bowers 
in  his  sleeve. 

It  will  be  seen,  also,  that  the  situation  was  novel. 
Deaths  were  by  no  means  uncommon  in  Roaring  Camp, 
but  a  birth  was  a  new  thing.  People  had  been  dismissed 
the  camp  effectively,  finally,  and  with  no  possibility  of 
return,  but  this  was  the  first  time  that  anybody  had  been 
introduced  ab  initio.  Hence  the  excitement. 

"  You  go  in  there,  Stumpy,"  said  a  prominent  citizen 
known  as  "  Kentuck,"  addressing  one  of  the  loungers. 
"  Go  in  there  and  see  what  you  kin  do.  You  've  had 
experience  in  them  things." 

Perhaps  there  was  a  fitness  in  the  selection.  Stumpy, 
in  other  climes,  had  been  the  putative  head  of  two  fami- 
lies ;  in  fact,  it  was  to  some  legal  informality  in  these 
proceedings  that  Roaring  Camp  —  a  city  of  refuge  — 
was  indebted  for  his  company.  The  crowd  approved 
the  choice,  and  Stumpy  was  wise  enough  to  bow  to  the 
majority.  The  door  closed  on  the  extempore  surgeon 
and  midwife,  and  Roaring  Camp  sat  down  outside, 
smoked  its  pipe,  and  awaited  the  issue. 


46  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

The  assemblage  numbered  about  a  hundred  men.  One 
or  two  of  these  were  actual  fugitives  from  justice,  some 
were  criminal,  and  all  were  reckless.  Physically,  they 
exhibited  no  indications  of  their  past  lives  and  character. 
The  greatest  scamp  had  a  Raphael  face,  with  a  profusion 
of  blond  hair ;  Oakhurst,  a  gambler,  had  the  melancholy 
air  and  intellectual  abstraction  of  a  Hamlet ;  the  coolest 
and  most  courageous  man  was  scarcely  over  five  feet  in 
height,  with  a  soft  voice  and  an  embarrassed,  timid  man- 
ner. The  term  "  roughs,"  applied  to  them,  was  a  dis- 
tinction rather  than  a  definition.  Perhaps  in  the  minor 
details  of  fingers,  toes,  ears,  etc.,  the  camp  may  have 
been  deficient,  but  these  slight  omissions  did  not  detract 
from  their  aggregate  force.  The  strongest  man  had  but 
three  fingers  on  his  right  hand ;  the  best  shot  had  but 
one  eye. 

Such  was  the  physical  aspect  of  the  men  that  were 
dispersed  around  the  cabin.  The  camp  lay  in  a  triangu- 
lar valley,  between  two  hills  and  a  river.  The  only  out- 
let was  a  steep  trail  over  the  summit  of  a  hill  that  faced 
the  cabin  now  illuminated  by  the  rising  moon.  The 
suffering  woman  might  have  seen  it  from  the  rude  bunk 
whereon  she  lay,  —  seen  it  winding  like  a  silver  thread 
until  it  was  lost  in  the  stars  above. 

A  fire  of  withered  pine  boughs  added  sociability  to  the 
gathering.  By  degrees  the  natural  levity  of  Roaring 
Camp  returned.  Bets  were  freely  offered  and  taken 
regarding  the  result.  Three  to  five  that  "  Sal  would  get 
through  with  it "  ;  even  that  the  child  would  survive ; 
side  bets  as  to  the  sex  and  complexion  of  the  coming 
stranger.  In  the  midst  of  an  excited  discussion  an 


THE    LUCK    OP    KOAIIING    CAMP.  47 

exclamation  came  from  those  nearest  the  door,  and  the 
camp  stopped  to  listen.  Above  the  swaying  and  moan- 
ing  of  the  pines,  the  swift  rush  of  the  river,  and  the 
crackling  of  the  fire,  rose  a  sharp,  querulous  cry,— 
a  cry  unlike  anything  heard  before  in  the  camp.  The 
pines  stopped  moaning,  the  river  ceased  to  rush,  and 
the  fire  to  crackle.  It  seemed  as  if  nature  had  stopped 
to  listen  too. 

The  camp  rose  to  its  feet  as  one  man.  It  was  pro- 
posed to  explode  a  barrel  of  gunpowder;  but,  in  consid- 
eration of  the  mother,  better  counsels  prevailed,  and 
only  a  few  revolvers  were  discharged.  Tor,  whether 
owing  to  the  rude  surgery  of  the  camp,  or  some  other 
reason,  Cherokee  Sal  was  sinking  fast.  Within  an  hour 
she  had  climbed,  as  it  were,  that  rugged  road  that  led  to 
the  stars,  and  so  passed  out  of  Roaring  Camp,  its  sin 
and  shame,  forever.  I  do  not  think  that  the  announce- 
ment disturbed  them  much,  except  in  speculation  as  to 
the  fate  of  the  child.  "  Can  he  live  now  ?  "  was  asked 
of  Stumpy.  The  answer  was  doubtful.  The  only  other 
being  of  Cherokee  Sal's  sex  and  maternal  condition  in 
the  settlement  was  an  ass.  There  was  some  conjecture 
as  to  fitness,  but  the  experiment  was  tried.  It  was  less 
problematical  than  the  ancient  treatment  of  Romulus 
and  Remus,  and  apparently  as  successful. 

When  these  details  were  completed,  which  exhausted 
another  hour,  the  door  was  opened,  and  the  anxious 
crowd,  who  had  already  formed  themselves  into  a  queue, 
entered  in  single  file.  Beside  the  low  bunk  or  shelf, 
on  which  the  figure  of  the  mother  was  starkly  outlined 
below  the  blankets,  stood  a  pine  table.  On  this  a  candle- 


48  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

box  was  placed,  and  •within  it,  swathed  in  staring  red 
flannel,  lay  the  last  arrival  at  Roaring  Camp.  Besida 
the  candle-box  was  placed  a  hat.  Its  use  was  soon  indi- 
cated. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Stumpy,  with  a  singular  mixturp 
of  authority  and  ex  qfficio  complacency,  —  "  gentlemen 
will  please  pass  in  at  the  front  door.  Them  as  wishe? 
to  contribute  anything  toward  the  orphan  will  find  a  hat 
handy." 

The  first  man  entered  with  his  hat  on ;  he  imcoyeredj 
however,  as  he  looked  about  him,  and  so,  unconsciously, 
set  an  example  to  the  next.  In  such  communities  good 
and  bad  examples  are  catching.  As  the  procession  filed 
in,  comments  were  audible,  —  criticisms  addressed,  per- 
haps, rather  to  Stumpy,  in  the  character  of  showman: 
"  Is  that  him  ?  "  "  Mighty  small  specimen  "  ;  "  Has  n't 
mor'n  got  the  color  "  ;  "  Ain't  bigger  than  a  derringer." 
The  contributions  were  as  characteristic,  —  a  silver  to- 
bacco-box ;  a  doubloon ;  a  navy  revolver,  silver  mounted  ; 
a  gold  specimen ;  a  very  beautifully  embroidered  lady's 
handkerchief  (from  Oakhurst,  the  gambler) ;  a  diamond 
breastpin ;  a  diamond  ring  (suggested  by  the  pin,  with 
the  remark  from  the  giver  that  he  "  saw  the  pin  and 
went  two  diamonds  better ") ;  a  slung-shot ;  a  Bible 
(contributor  not  detected)  ;  a  golden  spur ;  a  silver  tea- 
spoon (the  initials,  I  regret  to  say,  were  not  the  giver's) ; 
a  pair  of  surgeon's  shears ;  a  lancet ;  a  Bank  of  England 
note  for  £  5  ;  and  about  $  200  in  loose  gold  and  silver 
coin. 

During  these  proceedings  Stumpy  maintained  a  silence 
as  impassive  as  the  dead  on  his  left,  a  gravity  as  inscru- 


THE  LUCK  OF  EOARING  CAMP.       49 

table  as  that  of  the  newly-born  on  his  right.  Oniy  one 
accident  occurred  to  break  the  monotony  of  th?  curious 
procession.  As  Kentuck  bent  over  the  candle-box,  half 
curiously,  the  child  turned,  and  in  a  spasm  of  pain  caught 
at  his  groping  finger,  and  held  it  fast  for  a  moment. 
Kentuck  looked  foolish  and  embarrassed.  Something 
like  a  blush  tried  to  assert  itself  in  his  weather-beaten 
cheek.  "The  d — d  little  cuss!"  he  said,  as  he  extri- 
cated his  finger,  with  perhaps  more  tenderness  and  care 
than  he  might  have  been  deemed  capable  of  showing. 
He  held  that  finger  a  little  apart  from  its  fellows  as  IIG 
went  out  and  examined  it  curiously.  The  examination 
provoked  the  same  original  remark  in  regard  to  the  child. 
In  fact,  he  seemed  to  enjoy  repeating  it.  "He  rastled 
with  my  finger,"  he  remarked  to  Tipton,  holding  up  the 
member,  "  the  d — d  little  cuss  !  " 

It  was  four  o'clock  before  the  camp  sought  repose. 
A  light  burned  in  the  cabin  where  the  watchers  sat,  for 
Stumpy  did  not  go  to  bed  that  night.  Nor  did  Kentuck. 
•He  drank  quite  freely,  and  related  with  great  gusto  his 
experience,  invariably  ending  with  his  characteristic  con- 
demnation of  the  new-comer.  It  seemed  to  relieve  him 
of  the  unjust  implication  of  sentiment,  and  Kentuck  had 
the  weakness  of  the  nobler  sex.  When  everybody  else 
had  gone  to  bed,  he  walked  down  to  the  river  and 
whistled  reflectively.  Then  he  walked  up  the  gulch, 
past  the  cabin,  still  whistling  with  demonstrative  uncon- 
cern. At  a  large  red-wood  tree  he  paused,  and  retraced 
his  steps,  and  again  passed  the  cabin.  Half-way  down 
to  the  river's  bank  he  again  paused,  and  then  returned 
and  knocked  at  the  door.  It  was  opened  by  Stumpy, 

VOL.  IV.  3  D 


50  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

"  How  goes  it  ?  "  said  Kentuck,  looking  past  Stamp*, 
toward  the  candle-box. 

"  All  serene,"  replied  Stumpy. 

"  Anything  up  ?  " 

"  Nothing." 

There  was  a  pause,  —  an  embarrassing  one,  —  Stumpy 
still  holding  the  door.  Then  Keutuck  had  recourse  to 
his  finger,  which  he  held  up  to  Stumpy.  "  Rastled  with 
it  —  the  demd  little  cuss,"  he  said,  and  retired. 

The  next  day,  Cherokee  Sal  had  such  rude  sepulture 
as  Roaring  Camp  afforded.  After  her  body  had  been 
committed  to  the  hillside,  there  was  a  formal  meeting  of 
the  camp  to  discuss  what  should  be  done  with  her  infant. 
A  resolution  to  adopt  it  was  unanimous  and  enthusiastic. 
But  an  animated  discussion  in  regard  to  the  manner  and 
feasibility  of  providing  for  its  wants  at  once  sprang  up. 
It  was  remarkable  that  the  argument  partook  of  none  of 
those  fierce  personalities  with  which  discussions  were 
usually  conducted  at  Roaring  Camp.  Tipton  proposed 
that  they  should  send  the  child  to  Red  Dog,  —  a  distance 
of  forty  miles,  —  where  female  attention  could  be  pro- 
cured. But  the  unlucky  suggestion  met  with  fierce  and 
unanimous  opposition.  It  was  evident  that  no  plan 
which  entailed  parting  from  their  new  acquisition  would 
for  a  moment  be  entertained.  "Beside,"  said  Tom 
Ryder,  "them  fellows  at  Red  Dog  would  swap  it  and 
ring  in  somebody  else  on  us."  A  disbelief  in  the  honesty 
of  other  camps  prevailed  at  Roaring  Camp,  as  in  other 
places. 

The  introduction  of  a  female  nurse  in  the  camp  also 
met  with  objection.  It  was  argued  that  no  decent  wo- 


THE  LUCK  OF  ROARING  CAMP.      51 

man  could  be  prevailed  to  accept  Roaring  Camp  as  her 
home,  and  the  speaker  urged  that  "  they  did  n't  want 
any  more  of  the  other  kind."  This  unkind  allusion  to 
the  defunct  mother,  harsh  as  it  may  seem,  was  the  first 
spasm  of  propriety,  —  the  first  symptom  of  the  camp's 
regeneration. 

Stumpy  advanced  nothing.  Perhaps  he  felt  a  certain 
delicacy  in  interfering  with  the  selection  of  a  possible 
successor  in  office.  But  when  questioned  he  averred 
stoutly  that  he  and  "Jinny" — the  mammal  before  al- 
luded to  —  could  manage  to  rear  the  child.  There  was 
something  original,  independent,  and  heroic  about  the 
plan,  that  pleased  the  camp.  Stumpy  was  retained.  Cer- 
tain articles  were  sent  for  to  Sacramento.  "Mind," 
said  the  treasurer,  as  he  pressed  a  bag  of  gold-dust  into 
the  expressman's  hand,  "  the  best  that  can  be  got  —  lace, 
you  know,  and  filigree-work  and  frills ;  d — n  the  cost !  " 

Strange  to  say,  the  child  thrived.  Perhaps  the  invig- 
orating climate  of  the  mountain  camp  was  compensation 
for  maternal  deficiencies.  Nature  took  the  foundling  to 
her  broader  breast.  In  that  rare  atmosphere  of  the 
Sierra  foot-hills,  —  that  air  pungent  with  balsamic  odor,  — 
that  ethereal  cordial,  at  once  bracing  and  exhilarating,  he 
may  have  found  food  and  nourishment,  or  a  subtle  chem- 
istry that  transmuted  ass's  milk  to  lime  and  phosphorus. 
Stumpy  inclined  to  the  belief  that  it  was  the  latter  and 
good  nursing.  "  Me  and  that  ass,"  he  would  say,  "  has 
been  father  and  mother  to  him !  Don't  you,"  he  would 
add,  apostrophizing  the  helpless  burden  before  him, 
"never  go  back  on  us." 

By  the  time  he  was  a  month  old  the  necessity  of  giving 


52  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

him  a  name  became  apparent.  He  had  generally  been 
known  as  "  the  kid,"  "  Stumpy's  boy,"  "  the  Cayote  " 
(an  allusion  to  his  vocal  powers),  and  even  by  Kentuck's 
endearing  diminutive  of  "the  d — d  little  cuss."  But 
these  were  felt  to  be  vague  and  unsatisfactory,  and  were 
at  last  dismissed  under  another  influence.  Gamblers 
and  adventurers  are  generally  superstitious,  and  Oak- 
hurst  one  day  declared  that  the  baby  had  brought  "  the 
luck  "  to  Roaring  Camp.  It  was  certain  that  of  late 
they  had  been  successful.  "  Luck  "  was  the  name  agreed 
upon,  with  the  prefix  of  "Tommy"  for  greater  con- 
venience. No  allusion  was  made  to  the  mother,  and  the 
father  was  unknown.  "  It 's  better,"  said  the  phil- 
osophical Oakhurst,  "to  take  a  fresh  deal  all  around. 
Call  him  Luck  and  start  him  fair." 

A  day  was  accordingly  set  apart  for  the  christening. 
What  was  meant  by  this  ceremony  the  reader  may  im- 
agine who  has  already  gathered  some  idea  of  the  reckless 
irreverence  of  Roaring  Camp.  The  master  of  ceremonies 
was  one  "  Boston,"  a  noted  wag,  and  the  occasion  seemed 
to  promise  the  greatest  facetiousness.  This  ingenious 
satirist  had  spent  two  days  in  preparing  a  burlesque  of 
the  church  service,  with  pointed  local  allusions.  The 
choir  was  properly  trained,  and  Sandy  Tipton  was  to 
stand  godfather.  But  after  the  procession  had  marched 
to  the  grove  with  music  and  banners,  and  the  child  had 
been  deposited  before  a  mock  altar,  Stumpy  stepped  be- 
fore the  expectant  crowd.  "  It  ain't  my  style  to  spoil 
fun,  boys,"  said  the  little  man,  stoutly  eying  the  faces 
around  him,  "but  it  strikes  me  that  this  thing  ain't  ex- 
actly on  a  square.  It 's  playing  it  pretty  low  down  on 


THE  LUCK  OF  EOAEING  CAMP.       53 

(his  yer  baby  to  ring  in  fun  on  him  that  he  ain't  a-going 
to  understand.  And  ef  there  's  going  to  be  any  godfather 
round,  I  'd  like  to  see  who  's  got  any  better  rights  than 
me." 

A  silence  followed  Stumpy's  speech.  To  the  credit  of 
all  humorists  be  it  said  that  the  first  man  to  acknowledge 
its  justice  was  the  satirist,  thus  estopped  of  his  fun. 

"  But,"  said  Stumpy,  quickly,  following  up  his  advan- 
tage, "  we  're  here  for  a  christening,  and  we  '11  have  it. 
I  proclaim  you  Thomas  Luck,  according  to  the  laws  of 
the  United  States  and  the  State  of  California,  —  so  help 
me  God." 

It  was  the  first  time  that  the  name  of  the  Deity  had 
been  uttered  aught  but  profanely  in  the  camp.  The 
form  of  christening  was  perhaps  even  more  ludicrous  than 
the  satirist  had  conceived,  but,  strangely  enough,  nobody 
saw  it  and  nobody  laughed.  Tommy  was  christened 
as  seriously  as  he  would  have  been  under  a  Christian 
roof,  and  cried  and  was  comforted  in  as  orthodox  fash- 
ion. 

And  so  the  work  of  regeneration  began  in  Roaring 
Camp.  Almost  imperceptibly  a  change  came  over  the 
settlement.  The  cabin  assigned  to  Tommy  Luck  — 
or  The  Luck  as  he  was  more  frequently  called  — 
first  showed  signs  of  improvement.  It  was  kept  scrupu- 
lously clean  and  whitewashed.  Then  it  was  boarded, 
lathed,  and  papered.  The  rosewood  cradle  —  packed 
eighty  miles  by  mule  —  had,  in  Stumpy's  way  of  putting 
it,  "  sorter  killed  the  rest  of  the  furniture."  So  the  re- 
habilitation of  the  cabin  became  a  necessity.  The  men 
who  were  in  the  habit  of  lounging  in  at  Stumpy's  to 


54  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

see  "  how  The  Luck  got  on,"  seemed  to  appreciate  the 
change,  and,  in  self-defence,  the  rival  establishment  of 
Tuttle's  grocery  bestirred  itself,  and  imported  a  carpet 
and  mirrors.  The  reflections  of  the  latter  on  the  appear- 
ance of  Roaring  Camp  tended  to  produce  stricter  habits 
of  personal  cleanliness.  Again,  Stumpy  imposed  a  kind 
of  quarantine  upon  those  who  aspired  to  the  honor  and 
privilege  of  holding  The  Luck.  It  was  a  cruel  morti- 
fication to  Kentuck  —  who,  in  the  carelessness  of  a  large 
nature,  and  the  habits  of  a  frontier  life,  had  begun  to 
regard  all  garments  as  a  second  cuticle,  which,  like  a 
snake's,  only  sloughed  off  through  decay  —  to  be  debarred 
this  privilege  from  certain  prudential  reasons.  Yet  such 
was  the  subtle  influence  of  innovation,  that  he  thereafter 
appeared  regularly  every  afternoon  in  a  clean  shirt,  and 
face  still  shining  from  his  ablutions.  Nor  were  moral 
and  social  sanitary  laws  neglected.  Tommy,  who  was 
supposed  to  spend  his  whole  existence  in  a  persistent 
attempt  to  repose,  must  not  be  disturbed  by  noise.  The 
shouting  and  yelling  which  had  gained  the  camp  its  in- 
felicitous title  were  not  permitted  within  hearing  distance 
of  Stumpy's.  The  men  conversed  in  whispers,  or  smoked 
in  Indian  gravity.  Profanity  was  tacitly  given  up  in 
those  sacred  precincts,  and  throughout  the  camp  a  popu- 
lar form  of  expletive,  known  as  "  D — n  the  luck !  "  and 
"  Curse  the  luck !  "  was  abandoned,  as  having  a  new 
personal  bearing.  Vocal  music  was  not  interdicted,  be- 
ing supposed  to  have  a  soothing,  tranquillizing  quality ; 
and  one  song,  sung  by  "  Man-o'-War  Jack,"  an  English 
sailor,  from  her  Majesty's  Australian  colonies,  was  quite 
popular  as  a  lullaby.  It  was  a  lugubrious  recital  of  the 


THE  LUCK  OF  ROARING  CAMP.       55 

exploits  of  "the  Aretliusia  seventy -four,"  in  a  muffled 
minor,  ending  with  a  prolonged  dying  fall  at  the  burden 
of  each  verse,  "  On  b-o-o-o-ard  of  the  Arethusia."  It 
was  a  fine  sight  to  see  Jack  holding  The  Luck,  rocking 
from  side  to  side  as  if  with  the  motion  of  a  ship,  and 
crooning  forth  this  naval  ditty.  Either  through  the  pe- 
culiar rocking  of  Jack  or  the  length  of  his  song,  -  it  con- 
tained ninety  stanzas,  and  was  continued  with  conscien- 
tious deliberation  to  the  bitter  end,  —  the  lullaby  generally 
had  the  desired  effect.  At  such  times  the  men  would  lie 
at  full  length  under  the  trees,  in  the  soft  summer  twilight, 
smoking  their  pipes  and  drinking  in  the  melodious  utter- 
ances. An  indistinct  idea  that  this  was  pastoral  hap- 
piness pervaded  the  camp.  "This  'ere  kind  o'  think," 
said  Cockney  Simmons,  meditatively  reclining  on  his  el- 
bow, "  is  'eavingly.  It  reminded  him  of  Greenwich." 

On  the  long  summer  days  The  Luck  was  usually  car- 
ried to  the  gulch  whence  the  golden  stone  of  Roaring 
Camp  was  taken.  There,  on  a  blanket  spread  over  pine 
boughs,  he  would  lie  while  the  men  were  working  in 
the  ditches  below.  Latterly  there  was  a  rude  attempt 
to  decorate  this  bower  with  flowers  and  sweet-smelling 
shrubs,  and  generally  some  one  would  bring  him  a  clus- 
ter of  wild  honeysuckles,  azalias,  or  the  painted  blossoms 
of  Las  Mariposas.  The  men  had  suddenly  awakened 
to  the  fact  that  there  were  beauty  and  significance  in 
these  trifles  which  they  had  so  long  trodden  carelessly 
beneath  their  feet.  A  flake  of  glittering  mica,  a  frag- 
ment of  variegated  quartz,  a  bright  pebble  from  the  bed 
of  the  creek,  became  beautiful  to  eyes  thus  cleared  and 
strengthened,  and  were  invariably  put  aside  for  Th? 


56  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

Luck.  It  was  wonderful  how  many  treasures  the  woods 
and  hillsides  yielded  that  "would  do  for  Tommy." 
Surrounded  by  playthings  such  as  never  a  child  out 
of  fairy -land  had  before,  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  Tommy 
was  content.  He  appeared  to  be  securely  happy  albeit 
there  was  an  infantine  gravity  about  him  —  contem- 
plative light  in  his  round,  gray  eyes  —  that  sometimes 
worried  Stumpy.  He  was  always  tractable  and  quiet ; 
and  it  is  recorded  that  once,  having  crept  beyond  his 
"  corral,"  —  a  hedge  of  tessellated  pine  boughs  which 
surrounded  his  bed,  —  he  dropped  over  the  bank  on 
his  head  in  the  soft  earth,  and  remained  with  his 
mottled  legs  in  the  air  in  that  position  for  at  least  five 
minutes  with  unflinching  gravity.  He  was  extricated 
without  a  murmur. 

I  hesitate  to  record  the  many  other  instances  of  his 
sagacity,  which  rest,  unfortunately,  upon  the  statements 
of  prejudiced  friends.  Some  of  them  were  not  without 
a  tinge  of  superstition.  "I  crept  up  the  bank,  just 
now,"  said  Kentuck  one  day,  in  a  breathless  state  of 
excitement,  "and  dern  my  skin  if  he  wasn't  talking 
to  a  jay-bird  as  was  a-sittin'  in  his  lap.  There  they 
was,  just  as  free  and  sociable  as  anything  you  please, 
a-jawin'  at  each  other  just  like  two  cherrybunis." 

Howbeit,  whether  creeping  over  the  pine  boughs  or 
lying  lazily  on  his  back,  blinking  at  the  leaves  above 
him,  to  him  the  birds  sang,  the  squirrels  chattered,  and 
the  flowers  bloomed.  Nature  was  his  nurse  and  play- 
fellow. For  him  she  would  let  slip  between  the  leaves 
golden  shafts  of  sunlight,  that  fell  just  within  his  grasp ; 
she  would  send  wandering  breezes  to  visit  him  with 


THE  LUCK  OF  EOAEING  CAMP.       57 

the  Balm  of  bay  and  resinous  gums.  To  him  the  tall 
red-woods  nodded  familiarly  and  sleepily,  the  bumble- 
bees buzzed,  and  the  rooks  cawed  a  slumberous  accom- 
paniment. 

Such  was  the  golden  summer  of  Roaring  Camp.  They 
were  "flush  times,"  and  the  luck  was  with  them.  The 
claims  had  yielded  enormously.  The  camp  was  jealous 
of  its  privileges,  and  looked  suspiciously  on  strangers. 
No  encouragement  was  given  to  immigration;  and  to 
make  their  seclusion  more  perfect,  the  land  on  either 
side  of  the  mountain  camp  they  duly  pre-empted.  This, 
and  a  reputation  for  singular  proficiency  with  the  re- 
volver, kept  the  reserve  of  Roaring  Camp  inviolate. 
The  expressman  —  their  only  connecting  link  with  the 
surrounding  world  —  sometimes  told  wonderful  stories 
of  the  camp.  He  would  say,  "  They  've  a  street  up  there 
in  '  Roaring '  that  would  lay  over  any  street  in  Red  Dog. 
They  've  got  vines  and  flowers  round  their  houses,  and 
they  wash  themselves  twice  a  day.  But  they  're  mighty 
rough  on  strangers,  and  they  worship  an  Ingin  baby." 

With  the  prosperity  of  the  camp  came  a  desire  for 
further  improvement.  It  was  proposed  to  build  a  hotel 
the  following  spring,  and  to  invite  one  or  two  decent 
families  to  reside  there  for  the  sake  of  The  Luck,  who 
might  perhaps  profit  by  female  companionship.  The 
sacrifice  that  tin's  concession  to  the  sex  cost  these  men, 
who  were  fiercely  sceptical  in  regard  to  its  general 
virtue  and  usefulness,  can  only  be  accounted  for  by 
their  affection  for  Tommy.  A  few  still  held  out.  But 
the  resolve  could  not  be  carried  into  effect  for  three 
months,  and  the  minority  meekly  yielded,  in  the  hope 
3* 


58  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

that  something  might  turn  up  to  prevent  it.  And  it 
did. 

The  winter  of  1851  will  long  be  remembered  in  the 
foot-hills.  The  snow  lay  deep  on  the  Sierras,  and  every 
mountain  creek  became  a  river,  and  every  river  a  lake. 
Each  gorge  and  gulch  was  transformed  into  a  tumult- 
uous watercourse  that  descended  the  hillsides,  tearing 
down  giant  trees  and  scattering  its  drift  and  debris  along 
the  plain.  Red  Dog  had  been  twice  under  water,  and 
Roaring  Camp  had  been  forewarned.  "  Water  put  the 
gold  into  them  gulches,"  said  Stumpy.  "  It 's  been  here 
once,  and  will  be  here  again!"  And  that  night  the 
North  Fork  suddenly  leaped  over  its  banks,  and  swept 
up  the  triangular  valley  of  the  Roaring  Camp. 

In  the  confusion  of  rushing  water,  crashing  trees,  and 
crackling  timber,  and  the  darkness  which  seemed  to  flow 
with  the  water  and  blot  out  the  fair  valley,  but  little 
could  be  done  to  collect  the  scattered  camp.  When  the 
morning  broke,  the  cabin  of  Stumpy,  nearest  the  river- 
bank,  was  gone.  Higher  up  the  gulch  they  found  the 
body  of  its  unlucky  owner ;  but  the  pride,  the  hope,  the 
joy  —  The  Luck  —  of  Roaring  Camp  had  disappeared. 
They  were  returning  with  sad  hearts,  when  a  shout  from 
the  bank  recalled  them. 

It  was  a  relief  boat  from  down  the  river.  They  had 
picked  up,  they  said,  a  man  and  an  infant,  nearly  ex- 
hausted, about  two  miles  below.  Did  anybody  know 
them,  and  did  they  belong  here? 

It  needed  but  a  glance  to  show  them  Kentuck  lying 
there,  cruelly  crushed  and  bruised,  but  still  holding  The 
Luck  of  Roaring  Camp  in  his  arms.  As  they  bent  over 


THE  LUCK  OP  ROARING  CAMP.       59 

the  strangely  assorted  pair,  they  saw  that  the  child  was 
cold  and  pulseless.  "He  is  dead/'  said  one.  Kentuck 
opened  his  eyes.  "  Dead  ?  "  he  repeated  feebly.  "  Yes, 
my  man,  and  you  are  dying  too."  A  smile  lit  the  eyes 
of  the  expiring  Kentuck.  "Dying?"  he  repeated; 
"he's  a-taking  me  with  him.  Tell  the  boys  I've  got 
The  Luck  with  me  now."  And  the  strong  man,  cliii^ 
ing  to  the  frail  babe  as  a  drowning  man  is  said  to  cling 
to  a  straw,  drifted  away  into  a  shadowy  river  that  flows 
forever  to  the  unknown  sea. 


JERRY  JARVIS'S  WIG. 

A  LEGEND   OF  THE  WEALD  OF  KENT. 

BY  RICHARD  HARRIS  BARHAM. 

10E,"  said  old  Jarvis,  looking  out  of  his  window, 
|  —  it  was  his  ground-floor  back,  —  "  Joe,  you 
seem  to  be  very  hot,  Joe,  and  you  have  got 
no  wig  !  " 

"Yes,  sir,"  quoth  Joseph,  pausing  and  resting  upon 
his  spade,  "it's  as  hot  a  day  as  ever  I  see;  but  the 
celery  must  be  got  in,  or  there  '11  be  no  autumn  crop, 
and  —  " 

"Well,  but,  Joe,  the  sun's  so  hot,  and  it  shines  so 
on  your  bald  head,  it  makes  one  wink  to  look  at  it. 
You  '11  have  a  coup  de  soleil,  Joe." 

"  A  what,  sir  ?  " 

"  No  matter ;  it 's  very  hot  working ;  and  if  you  '11 
step  in-doors  I  '11  give  you  — " 

"  Thank  ye,  your  Honor,  a  drop  of  beer  will  be  very 
acceptable." 

Joe's  countenance  brightened  amazingly. 

"  Joe,  I  '11  give  you  —  my  old  wig !  " 


61 

The  countenance  of  Joseph  fell,  his  gray  eye  had 
glistened  as  a  blest  vision  of  double-X  flitted  athwart  his 
fancy;  its  glance  faded  again  into  the  old,  filmy,  goose- 
berry-colored hue,  as  he  growled  in  a  minor  key,  "  A  wig, 
sir !  " 

"  Yes,  Joe,  a  wig.  The  man  who  does  not  study  the 
comfort  of  his  dependants  is  an  unfeeling  scoundrel. 
You  shall  have  my  old  worn-out  wig." 

"  I  hope,  sir,  you  '11  give  me  a  drop  o'  beer  to  drink 
your  Honor's  health  in;  it  is  very  hot,  and  — 

"Come  in,  Joe,  and  Mrs.  Witherspoon  shall  give  it 
you." 

"  Heaven  bless  your  Honor,"  said  honest  Joe,  striking 
his  spade  perpendicularly  into  the  earth,  and  walking  with 
more  than  usual  alacrity  towards  the  close-cut,  quickset 
hedge  which  separated  Mr.  Jarvis's  garden  from  the 
high-road. 

From  the  quickset  hedge  aforesaid  he  now  raised,  with 
all  due  delicacy,  a  well-worn  and  somewhat  dilapidated 
jacket,  of  a  stuff  by  drapers  most  pseudonymously  termed 
"  everlasting."  Alack !  alack  !  what  is  there  to  which 
tempus  edax  rerum  will  accord  that  epithet  ?  In  its  high 
and  palmy  days  it  had  been  all  of  a  piece ;  but  as  its 
master's  eyes  now  fell  upon  it,  the  expression  of  his 
countenance  seemed  to  say  with  Octavian, 

"  Those  days  are  gone,  Floranthe !  " 

It  was  now,  from  frequent  patching,  a  coat  not  unlike 
that  of  the  patriarch,  —  one  of  many  colors. 

Joseph  Washford  inserted  his  wrists  into  the  corre- 
sponding orifices  of  the  tattered  garment,  and  with  a 


62  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

steadiness  of  circumgyration,  to  be  acquired  only  "by  long 
and  sufficient  practice,  swung  it  horizontally  over  his 
ears,  and  settled  himself  into  it. 

"Confound  your  old  jacket,"  cried  a  voice  from 
the  other  side  the  hedge,  "keep  it  down,  you  rascal! 
Don't  you  see  my  horse  is  frightened  at  it  ?  " 

"  Sensible  beast !  "  apostrophized  Joseph ;  "  I  've  been 
frightened  at  it  myself  every  day  for  the  last  two  years." 

The  gardener  cast  a  rueful  glance  at  its  sleeve,  and 
pursued  his  way  to  the  door  of  the  back  kitchen. 

"  Joe,"  said  Mrs.  Witherspoon,  a  fat,  comely  dame,  of 
about  five-and-forty,  —  "  Joe,  your  master  is  but  too  good 
to  you ;  he  is  always  kind  and  considerate.  Joe,  he  has 
desired  me  to  give  you  his  old  wig." 

"And  the  beer,  Ma'am  Witherspoon?"  said  Wash- 
ford,  taking  the  proffered  caxon,  and  looking  at  it  with 
an  expression  somewhat  short  of  rapture,  —  "  and  the 
beer,  ma'am ! " 

"  The  beer,  you  guzzling  wretch !  —  what  beer  ?  Mas- 
ter said  nothing  about  no  beer.  You  ungrateful  fellow, 
has  not  he  given  you  a  wig  ?  " 

"  "Why,  yes,  Madam  Witherspoon !  but  then,  you  see, 
his  Honor  said  it  was  very  hot,  and  I'm  very  dry, 
and  —  " 

"  Go  to  the  pump,  sot ! "  said  Mrs.  Witherspoon,  as 
she  slammed  the  back  door  in  the  face  of  the  petitioner. 

Mrs.  Witherspoon  was  "  of  the  Lady  Huntingdon  per- 
suasion," and  Honorary  Assistant  Secretary  to  the  Apple- 
dore  branch  of  the  "Ladies'  Grand  Junction  Water- 
working  Temperance  Society." 

Joe  remained  for  a  few  moments  lost  in  mental  ab- 


JERRY    JARVIS^S    WIG.  63 

straction  ;  he  looked  at  the  door,  lie  looked  at  the  wig ; 
his  first  thought  was  to  throw  it  into  the  pigsty, — his 
corruption  rose,  but  he  resisted  the  impulse ;  he  got  the 
better  of  Satan ;  the  half-formed  imprecation  died  before 
it  reached  his  lips.  He  looked  disdainfully  at  the  wig ; 
it  had  once  been  a  comely  jasey  enough,  of  the  color  of 
over-baked  gingerbread,  one  of  the  description  commonly 
known  during  the  latter  half  of  the  last  century  by  the 
name  of  a  "brown  George."  The  species,  it  is  to  be 
feared,  is  now  extinct ;  but  a  few,  a  very  few  of  the  same 
description  might,  till  very  lately,  be  occasionally  seen, 
—  rari  nantes  in  gurgite  vasto,  —  the  glorious  relics  of  a 
bygone  day,  crowning  the  cerebellum  of  some  venerated 
and  venerable  provost,  or  judge  of  assize  ;  but  Mr.  Jar- 
vis's  wig  had  one  peculiarity ;  unlike  most  of  its  fellows, 
it  had  a  tail !  —  "  cribbed  and  confined,"  indeed,  by  a 
shabby  piece  of  faded  shalloon. 

Washford  looked  at  it  again ;  he  shook  his  bald  head ; 
the  wig  had  certainly  seen  its  best  days ;  still  it  had 
about  it  somewhat  of  an  air  of  faded  gentility;  it  was 
"  like  ancient  Rome,  majestic  in  decay  "  ;  and  as  the 
small  ale  was  not  to  be  forthcoming,  why  —  after  all, 
an  old  wig  was  better  than  nothing ! 

Mr.  Jeremiah  Jarvis,  of  Appledore,  in  the  Weald  of 
Kent,  was  a  gentleman  by  act  of  Parliament ;  one  of  that 
class  of  gentlemen  who,  disdaining  the  bourgeoise-sound- 
ing  name  of  "  attorney-at-law,"  are,  by  a  legal  fiction,  de- 
nominated solicitors.  I  say  by  a  legal  fiction,  for  surely 
the  general  tenor  of  the  intimation  received  by  such  as 
enjoy  the  advantage  of  their  correspondence  has  little 
in  common  with  the  idea  usually  attached  to  the  term 


64  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

"solicitation."  "If  you  don't  pay  my  bill,  and  costs, 
I  '11  send  you  to  jail,"  is  a  very  energetic  entreaty. 
There  are,  it  is  true,  etymologists  who  derive  their  style 
and  title  from  the  Latin  infinitive  solicitare,  to  "make 
anxious,"  — in  all  probability  they  are  right, 

If  this  be  the  true  etymology  of  his  title,  as  it  was  the 
main  end  of  his  calling,  then  was  Jeremiah  Jarvis  a 
worthy  exemplar  of  the  genus  to  which  he  belonged.  Few 
persons  in  his  time  had  created  greater  solicitude  among 
his  Majesty's  lieges  within  the  "  Weald."  He  was  rich, 
of  course.  The  best  house  in  the  country-town  is  always 
the  lawyer's,  and  it  generally  boasts  a  green  door,  stone 
steps,  and  a  brass  knocker.  In  neither  of  these  appen- 
dages to  opulence  was  Jeremiah  deficient ;  but  then  he 
was  so  very  rich ;  his  reputed  wealth,  indeed,  passed  all 
the  common  modes  of  accounting  for  its  increase.  True, 
he  was  so  universal  a  favorite  that  every  man  whose  will 
he  made  was  sure  to  leave  him  a  legacy ;  that  he  was  a 
sort  of  general  assignee  to  all  the  bankruptcies  within 
twenty  miles  of  Appledore,  was  clerk  to  half  the 
"trusts,"  and  treasurer  to  most  of  the  "rates,"  "  funds," 
and  "  subscriptions "  in  that  part  of  the  country ; 
that  he  was  land-agent  to  Lord  Moimtrluno,  and  steward 
to  the  rich  Miss  Tabbytale  of  Srnerrididdle  Hall;  that 
he  had  been  guardian  (?)  to  three  young  profligates  who 
all  ran  through  their  property,  which,  somehow  or 
another,  came  at  last  into  his  hands,  "  at  an  equitable 
valuation."  Still  his  possessions  were  so  considerable  as 
not  to  be  altogether  accounted  for,  in  vulgar  esteem,  even 
by  these  and  other  honorable  modes  of  accumulation; 
fcor  were  there  wanting  those  who  conscientiously  enter- 


65 

tained  a  belief  that  a  certain  dark-colored  gentleman,  of 
indifferent  character,  known  principally  by  his  predilec- 
tion for  appearing  in  perpetual  mourning,  had  been 
through  life  his  great  friend  and  counsellor,  and  had 
mainly  assisted  in  the  acquirement  of  his  revenues.  That 
"  old  Jerry  Jarvis  had  sold  himself  to  the  Devil "  was, 
indeed,  a  dogma  which  it  were  heresy  to  doubt  in  Apple- 
dore ;  —  on  this  head,  at  least,  there  were  few  schismatics 
in  the  parish. 

When  the  worthy  "  Solicitor  "  next  looked  out  of  his 
ground-floor  back,  he  smiled  with  much  complacency  at 
beholding  Joe  Washford  again  hard  at  work,  —  in  his  wig, 
—  the  little  tail  aforesaid  oscillating  like  a  pendulum  in 
the  breeze.  If  it  be  asked  what  could  induce  a  gentle- 
man, whose  leading  principle  seems  to  have  been  self- 
appropriation,  to  make  so  magnificent  a  present,  the  an- 
swer is,  that  Mr.  Jarvis  might  perhaps  have  thought  an 
occasional  act  of  benevolence  necessary  or  politic ;  he  is 
not  the  only  person,  who,  having  stolen  a  quantity  of 
leather,  has  given  away  a  pair  of  shoes,  pour  V amour  de 
Dieu, — perhaps  he  had  other  motives. 

Joe,  meanwhile,  worked  away  at  the  celery-bed;  but 
truth  obliges  us  to  say,  neither  with  the  same  degree  of 
vigor  nor  perseverance  as  had  marked  the  earlier  efforts 
of  the  morning.  His  pauses  were  more  frequent;  he 
rested  longer  on  the  handle  of  his  spade  ;  while  ever  and 
anon  his  eye  would  wander  from  the  trench  beneath  him 
to  an  object  not  unworthy  the  contemplation  of  a  natural 
philosopher.  This  was  an  apple-tree. 

Fairer  fruit  never  tempted  Eve  or  any  of  her  daugh- 
ters ;  the  bending  branches  groaned  beneath  their  luxu- 


66  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

riant  freight,  and,  dropping  to  earth,  seemed  to  ask  the 
protecting  aid  of  man  either  to  support  or  to  relieve 
them.  The  fine,  rich  glow  of  their  sun-streaked  clusters 
derived  additional  loveliness  from  the  level  beams  of  the 
descending  day-star.  An  anchorite's  month  had  watered 
at  the  pippins. 

On  the  precise  graft  of  the  espalier  of  Eden,  "San- 
choniathon,  Manetho,  and  Berosus  "  are  undecided ;  the 
best-informed  Talmudists,  however,  have,  if  we  are  to 
believe  Dr.  Pinner's  German  version,  pronounced  it  a 
Ribstone  pippin,  and  a  Bibstone  pippin-tree  it  was  that 
now  attracted  the  optics  and  discomposed  the  inner  man 
of  the  thirsty,  patient,  but  perspiring  gardener.  The 
heat  was  still  oppressive  ;  no  beer  had  moistened  his  lip, 
though  its  very  name,  uttered  as  it  was  in  the  ungracious 
tones  of  a  "Witherspoon,  had  left  behind  a  longing  as  in- 
tense as  fruitless.  His  thirst  seemed  supernatural,  when 
at  this  moment  his  left  ear  experienced  "a  slight  and 
tickling  sensation,"  such  as  we  are  assured  is  occasion- 
ally produced  by  an  infinitesimal  dose  in  homoeopathy ;  a 
still,  small  voice,  —  it  was  as  though  a  daddy-long-legs 
were  whispering  in  his  tympanum,  —  a  still,  small  voice 
seemed  to  say,  "Joe! — take  an  apple,  Joe." 

Honest  Joseph  started  at  the  suggestion;  the  rich 
crimson  of  his  jolly  nose  deepened  to  a  purple  tint  in  the 
beams  of  the  setting  sun ;  his  very  forehead  was  incarna- 
dine. He  raised  his  hand  to  scratch  his  ear,  —  the  little 
tortuous  tail  had  worked  its  way  into  it,  —  he  pulled  it 
out  by  the  bit  of  shalloon,  and  allayed  the  itching,  then 
cast  his  eye  wistfully  towards  the  mansion  where  his 
master  was  sitting  by  the  open  window.  Joe  pursed  up 


WIG.  67 

his  parched  lips  into  an  arid  whistle,  and  with  a  desperate 
energy  struck  his  spade  once  more  into  the  celery-bed. 

Alack !  alack  !  what  a  piece  of  work  is  man  !  —  how 
short  his  triumphs!  —  how  frail  his  resolutions! 

Erom  this  fine  and  very  original  moral  reflection  we 
turn  reluctantly  to  record  the  sequel.  The  celery-bed, 
alluded  to  as  the  main  scene  of  Mr.  Washford's  opera- 
tions, was  drawn  in  a  rectilinear  direction,  nearly  across 
the  whole  breadth  of  the  parallelogram  that  comprised 
the  "kitchen-garden."  Its  northern  extremity  abutted 
to  the  hedge  before  mentioned,  its  southern  one  —  woe  is 
me  that  it  should  have  been  so  !  —  was  in  fearful  vicinity 
to  the  Ribstone  pippin-tree.  One  branch,  low  bowed  to 
earth,  seemed  ready  to  discharge  its  precious  burden  into 
the  very  trench.  As  Joseph  stooped  to  insert  the  last 
plant  with  his  dibble,  an  apple  of  more  than  ordinary 
beauty  bobbed  against  his  knuckles.  "  He  's  taking 
snuff,  Joe,"  whispered  the  same  small  voice;  the  tail 
had  twisted  itself  into  its  old  position.  "  He  's  sneezing ! 
—  now,  Joe  !  —  now  !  "  And,  ere  the  agitated  horticul- 
turist could  recover  from  his  surprise  and  alarm,  the 
fruit  was  severed,  and  —  in  his  hand ! 

"  He  !  he  !  he  !  "  shrilly  laughed,  or  seemed  to  laugh, 
that  accursed  little  pigtail.  Washford  started  at  once 
to  the  perpendicular.  With  an  enfrenzied  grasp  he  tore 
the  jasey  from  his  head,  and,  with  that  in  one  hand  and 
his  ill-acquired  spoil  in  the  other,  he  rushed  distractedly 
from  the  garden ! 

All  that  night  was  the  humble  couch  of  the  once-happy 
gardener  haunted  with  the  most  fearful  visions.  He  was 


68  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

stealing  apples,  —  lie  was  robbing  lien-roosts,  —  lie  was 
altering  the  chalks  upon  the  milk-score,  —  he  had  pur- 
loined three  chemises  from  a  hedge,  —  and  he  awoke  in 
the  very  act  of  cutting  the  throat  of  one  of  Squire 
Hodge's  sheep  !  A  clammy  dew  stood  upon  his  temples, 
—  the  cold  perspiration  burst  from  every  pore,  —  he 
sprang  in  terror  from  the  bed. 

"  Why,  Joe,  what  ails  thee,  man  ?  "  cried  the  usually 
incurious  Mrs.  Washford;  "what  be  the  matter  with 
thee  ?  Thee  hast  done  nothing  but  grunt  and  growl  all 
f  night  long,  and  now  thee  dost  stare  as  if  thee  saw 
summut.  What  bees  it,  Joe?" 

A  long-drawn  sigh  was  her  husband's  only  answer; 
his  eye  fell  upon  the  bed.  "  How  the  devil  came  that 
here  ?  "  quoth  Joseph,  with  a  sudden  recoil ;  "  who  put 
that  thing  on  my  pillow  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  did,  Joseph.  Th'  ould  nightcap  is  in  the 
wash,  and  thee  didst  toss  and  tumble  so,  and  kick  the 
clothes  off,  I  thought  thee  mightest  catch  cold,  so  I  clapt 
t'  wig  atop  o'  thee  head." 

And  there  it  lay,  —  the  little  sinister-looking  tail  im- 
pudently perked  up,  like  an  infernal  gnomon  on  a  Satanic 
dial-plate,  —  Larceny  and  Ovicide  shone  in  every  hair  of 
it! 

"  The  dawn  was  overcast,  the  morning  lowered, 
And  heavily  in  clouds  brought  on  the  day," 

when  Joseph  Washford  once  more  repaired  to  the  scene 
of  his  daily  labors;  a  sort  of  unpleasant  consciousness 
flushed  his  countenance,  and  gave  him  an  uneasy  feeling 
as  he  opened  the  garden-gate ;  for  Joe,  generally  speak- 
ing, was  honest  as  the  skin  between  his  brows ;  his  hand 


JERRY   JARVIS  S   WIG 


69 


faltered  as  it  pressed  the  latch.  "Pooh,  pooh!  'twas 
but  an  apple,  after  all !  "  said  Joseph.  He  pushed  open 
the  wicket,  and  found  himself  beneath  the  tempting  tree. 
But  vain  now  were  all  its  fascinations  ;  like  fairy  gold 
seen  by  the  morning  light,  its  charms  had  faded  into 
very  nothingness.  Worlds,  to  say  nothing  of  apples, 
which  in  shape  resemble  them,  would  not  have  bought 
him  to  stretch  forth  an  unhallowed  hand  again;  he  went 
steadily  to  his  work. 

The  day  continued  cloudy ;  huge  drops  of  rain  feU  at 
intervals,  stamping  his  bald  pate  with  spots  as  big  as 
halfpence ;  but  Joseph  worked  on.  As  the  day  advanced, 
showers  fell  thick  and  frequent;  the  fresh-turned  earth 
was  itself  fragrant  as  a  bouquet.  Joseph  worked  on; 
and  when  at  last  Jupiter  Pluvius  descended  in  all  his 
majesty,  soaking  the  ground  into  the  consistency  of 
dingy  pudding,  he  put  on  his  -party-colored  jacket,  and 
strode  towards  his  humble  home,  rejoicing  in  his  renewed 
integrity.  "  'T  was  but  an  apple,  after  all !  Had  it  been 
an  apple-pie,  indeed !  — 

"  An  apple-pie ! "  the  thought  was  a  dangerous  one,  — 
too  dangerous  to  dweU  on.  But  Joseph's  better  Genius 
was  this  time  lord  of  the  ascendant ;  he  dismissed  it,  and 
passed  on. 

On  arriving  at  his  cottage,  an  air  of  bustle  and  confu- 
sion prevailed  within,  much  at  variance  with  the  peaceful 
serenity  usually  observable  in  its  economy.  Mrs.  Wash- 
ford  was  in  high  dudgeon;  her  heels  clattered  on  the 
red-tiled  floor,  and  she  whisked  about  the  house  like  a 
parched  pea  upon  a  drum-head ;  her  voice,  generally  small 
and  low,  — "an  excellent  thing  in  woman,"— was 


70  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

pitched  at  least  an  octave  above  its  ordinary  level ;  sha 
was  talking  fast  and  furious.  Something  had  evidently 
gone  wrong.  The  mystery  was  soon  explained.  The 
"  cussed  old  twoad  of  a  cat "  had  got  into  the  dairy,  and 
licked  off  the  cream  from  the  only  pan  their  single  cow 
had  filled  that  morning !  And  there  she  now  lay,  purring 
as  in  scorn.  Tib,  heretofore  the  meekest  of  mousers, 
the  honestest,  the  least  "  scaddle  "  of  the  feline  race,  — 
a  cat  that  one  would  have  sworn  might  have  been  trusted 
with  untold  fish,  —  yes,  —  there  was  no  denying  it, — 
proofs  were  too  strong  against  her,  —  yet  there  she  lay, 
hardened  in  her  iniquity,  coolly  licking  her  whiskers, 
and  reposing  quietly  upon  —  what  ?  —  Jerry  Jarvis's  old 
wig! 

The  patience  of  a  Stoic  must  have  yielded ;  it  had  been 
too  much  for  the  temperament  of  the  Man  of  Uz.  Jo- 
seph Washford  lifted  his  hand,  —  that  hand  which  had 
never  yet  been  raised  on  Tibby  save  to  fondle  and  caress, 
—  it  now  descended  on  her  devoted  head  in  one  tremen- 
dous "dowse."  Never  was  cat  so  astonished,  so  en- 
raged :  all  the  tiger  portion  of  her  nature  rose  in  her 
soul.  Instead  of  galloping  off,  hissing  and  sputtering, 
with  arched  back,  and  tail  erected,  as  any  ordinary 
Grimalkin  would  unquestionably  have  done  under  similar 
circumstances,  she  paused  a  moment,  —  drew  back  on 
her  haunches,  —  all  her  energies  seemed  concentrated  for 
one  prodigious  spring ;  a  demoniac  fire  gleamed  in  her 
green  and  yellow  eyeballs,  as,  bounding  upwards,  she 
fixed  her  talons  firmly  in  each  of  her  assailant's  cheeks !  — 
many  and  many  a  day  after  were  sadly  visible  the  marks 
of  those  envenomed  claws,  —  then  dashing  over  his 


71 

shoulder  with  an  unearthly  mew,  she  leaped  through  the 
open  casement,  and  was  seen  no  more. 

"  The  Devil 's  in  the  cat !  "  was  the  apostrophe  of 
Mrs.  Margaret  Washford.  Her  husband  said  nothing, 
but  thrust  the  old  wig  into  his  pocket,  and  went  to  bathe 
his  scratches  at  the  pump. 

Day  after  day,  night  after  night,  't  was  all  the  same,  — 
Joe  Washford's  life  became  a  burden  to  him ;  his  natural 
upright  and  honest  mind  struggled  hard  against  the 
frailty  of  human  nature.  He  was  ever  restless  and  un- 
easy;  his  frank,  open,  manly  look,  that  blenched  not 
from  the  gaze  of  the  spectator,  was  no  more  ;  a  sly  and 
sinister  expression  had  usurped  the  place  of  it. 

Mr.  Jeremiah  Jarvis  had  little  of  what  the  world  calls 
"Taste,"  still  less  of  "Science."  Ackerman  would 
have  called  him  a  "Snob,"  and  Buckland  a  "Nincom- 
poop." Of  the  Horticultural  Society,  its  fetes,  its  fruits, 
and  its  fiddlings,  he  knew  nothing.  Little  recked  he  of 
flowers,  —  save  cauliflowers  ;  in  these,  indeed,  he  was 
a  connoisseur !  to  their  cultivation  and  cookery  the  re- 
spective talents  of  Joe  and  Madam  Witherspoon  had 
long  been  dedicated ;  but  as  for  a  bouquet !  —  Hardham's 
37  was  "  the  only  one  fit  for  a  gentleman's  nose."  And 
yet,  after  all,  Jerry  Jarvis  had  a  good-looking  tulip-bed. 
A  female  friend  of  his  had  married  a  Dutch  merchant ; 
Jerry  drew  the  settlements ;  the  lady  paid  him  by  a 
check  on  "  Child's,"  the  gentleman  by  a  present  of  a 
"  box  of  roots."  Jerry  put  the  latter  in  his  garden,  — 
he  had  rather  they  had  been  schalots. 

Not  so  his  neighbor  Jenkinson;  he  was  a  man  of 
"  Taste  "  and  of  "  Science  "  ;  he  was  an  F.  R  C.  E.  B.  S., 


72  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

which,  as  he  told  the  Vicar,  implied  "  Fellow  of  the 
Royal  Cathartico-Emetico-Botaiiical  Society,"  and  his 
autograph  hi  Sir  John  Frostyface's  album  stood  next  to 
that  of  the  Emperor  of  all  the  Russias.  Neighbor  Jen- 
kinsou  fell  in  love  with  the  pips  and  petals  of  "  Neighbor 
Jarvis's  tulips."  There  were  oue  or  two  among  them  of 
such  brilliant,  such  surpassing  beauty,  —  the  "  cups  "  so 
well  formed,  —  the  colors  so  defined.  To  be  sure,  Mr. 
Jenkinson  had  enough  in  his  own  garden;  but  then, 
"Enough,"  says  the  philosopher,  "  always  means  a  little 
more  than  a  man  has  got."  Alas !  alas  !  Jerry  Jarvis 
was  never  known  to  bestow,  —  his  neighbor  dared  not 
offer  to  purchase  from  so  wealthy  a  man;  and,  wqrse 
than  all,  Joe  the  gardener  was  incorruptible,  —  ay,  but 
the  wig  ? 

Joseph  Washford  was  working  away  again  in  the  blaze 
of  the  midday  sun  ;  his  head  looked  like  a  copper  sauce- 
pan fresh  from  the  brazier's. 

"Why,  where 's  your  wig,  Joseph?"  said  tbe  voice 
of  his  master  from  the  well-known  window ;  "  what  have 
you  done  with  your  wig  ?  "  The  question  was  embar- 
rassing,—  its  tail  had  tickled  his  ear  till  it  had  made  it 
sore ;  Joseph  had  put  the  wig  in  his  pocket. 

Mr.  Jeremiah  Jarvis  was  indignant ;  he  liked  not  that 
his  benefits  should  be  ill  appreciated  by  the  recipient. 
"  Hark  ye,  Joseph  Washford,"  said  he,  "  either  wear  my 
wig,  or  let  me  have  it  again !  " 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  meaning  of  his  tones ; 
they  were  resonant  of  indignation  and  disgust,  of  mingled 
grief  and  anger,  the  amalgamation  of  sentiment  naturally 
produced  by 


JERRY   JARVIS'S    WIG.  73 

"  Friendship  unreturned, 
And  unrequited  love." 

Washford's  heart  smote  him;  he  felt  all  that  was  im- 
plied in  his  master's  appeal.  "  It 's  here,  your  Honor," 
said  he  ;  "I  had  only  taken  it  off  because  we  have  had  a 
smartish  shower ;  but  the  sky  is  brightening  now."  The 
wig  was  replaced,  and  the  little  tortuous  pigtail  wriggled 
itself  into  its  accustomed  position. 

At  this  moment  Neighbor  Jenkinson  peeped  over  the 
hedge. 

"  Joe  Washford  !  "  said  Neighbor  Jenkinson. 

"  Sir  to  you,"  was  the  reply. 

"  How  beautiful  your  tulips  look  after  the  rain !  " 

"  Ah  !  sir,  master  sets  no  great  store  by  them  flowers/' 
returned  the  gardener. 

"  Indeed  !  Then  perhaps  he  would  have  no  objection 
to  part  with  a  few  ?  " 

"  Why,  no  !  —  I  don't  think  master  would  like  to  give 
them  —  or  anything  else  —  away,  sir."  And  Washford 
scratched  his  ear. 

"  Joe  ! !  "  said  Mr.  Jenkinson,  —  "  Joe  !  " 

The  Sublime,  observes  Longinus,  is  often  embodied  in 
a  monosyllable  —  "  Joe  !  !  !  "  —  Mr.  Jenkinson  said  no 
more ;  but  a  half-crown  shone  from  between  his  upraised 
fingers,  and  its  "  poor,  poor  dumb  mouth "  spoke  for 
him. 

How  Joseph  Washford's  left  ear  did  itch  !  He  looked 
to  the  ground-floor  back,  —  Mr.  Jarvis  had  left  the  win- 
dow. 

Mr.  Jenkinson's  ground-plot  boasted  at  daybreak  next 
morning  a  splendid  Semper  Augustus,  "which  was  not 

VOL.  IV.  4 


74  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

so  before  " ;  and  Joseph  Washford  was  led  borne,  much 
about  the  same  time,  in  a  most  extraordinary  state  of 
"  civilation,"  from  "  The  Three  Jolly  Potboys." 
From  that  hour  he  was  the  Fiend's ! ! 

"  Facilis  descensus  Averni  !  "  says  Virgil.  "  It  is 
only  the  first  step  that  is  attended  with  any  difficulty," 
says  —  somebody  else  —  when  speaking  of  the  decollated 
martyr,  St.  Dennis's  walk  with  his  head  under  his 
arm.  "  The  First  Step  !  "  Joseph  Washford  had  taken 
that  step  !  he  had  taken  two  —  three  —  fonr  steps ;  and 
now,  from  a  hesitating,  creeping,  cat-like  mode  of  pro- 
gression, he  had  got  into  a  firmer  tread  —  an  amble  —  a 
positive  trot !  He  took  the  family  linen  "  to  the  wash  "  ; 
one  of  Madam  Witherspoon's  best  Holland  chemises  was 
never  seen  after. 

"  Lost !  —  impossible  !  How  could  it  be  lost  ?  — 
where  could  it  be  gone  to  ?  —  who  could  have  got  it  ? 
It  was  her  best  —  her  very  best !  —  she  should  know  it 
among  a  hundred  —  among  a  thousand !  —  it  was  marked 
with  a  great  "W  in  the  corner.  Lost?  —  impossible! 
She  would  see  !  "  Alas !  she  never  did  see  —  the  chemise 
—  abiit,  erupit,  etasit !  —  it  was 

"  Like  the  lost  Pleiad,  seen  on  earth  no  more." 

But  Joseph  Washford's  Sunday  shirt  was  seen,  finer  and 
fairer  than  ever, — the  pride  and  dulce  decus  of  the 
Meeting. 

The  Meeting  ?  —  ay,  the  Meeting.  Joe  TTashford  nev- 
er missed  the  Appledore  Independent  Meeting-House, 
whether  the  service  were  in  the  morning  or  afternoon,  — 


JERRY   JARVIS'S   WIG.  75 

whether  the  Rev.  Mr.  Slyandry  exhorted  or  made  way 
for  the  Rev.  Mr.  Tearbrain.  Let  who  would  officiate, 
there  was  Joe.  As  I  have  said  before,  he  never  missed ; 
but  other  people  missed,  —  one  missed  an  umbrella,  one 
a  pair  of  clogs.  Farmer  Johnson  missed  his  tobacco-box, 
Farmer  Jackson  his  great-coat ;  Miss  Jackson  missed  her 
hymn-book,  a  diamond  edition,  bound  in  maroon-colored 
velvet,  with  gilt  corners  and  clasps.  Everything,  in 
short,  was  missed  —  but  Joe  Washford;  there  he  sat, 
grave,  sedate,  and  motionless,  all  save  that  restless, 
troublesome,  fidgety  little  pigtail  attached  to  his  wig, 
which  nothing  could  keep  quiet,  or  prevent  from  tickling 
and  interfering  with  Miss  Thompson's  curls,  as  she  sat 
back  to  back  with  Joe  in  the  adjoining  pew.  After  the 
third  Sunday,  Nancy  Thompson  eloped  with  the  tall  re- 
cruiting sergeant  of  the  Connaught  Rangers. 

The  summer  passed  away,  autumn  came  and  went, 
and  Christmas,  jolly  Christmas,  that  period  of  which  we 
are  accustomed  to  utter  the  mournful  truism,  it  "  comes 
but  once  a  year,"  was  at  hand.  It  was  a  fine,  bracing 
morning ;  the  sun  was  just  beginning  to  throw  a  brighter 
tint  upon  the  Quaker-colored  ravine  of  Orlestone  Hill, 
when  a  medical  gentleman,  returning  to  the  quiet  little 
village  of  Ham  Street,  that  lies  at  its  foot,  from  a  farm- 
house at  Kingsnorth,  rode  briskly  down  the  declivity. 

After  several  hours  of  patient  attention,  Mr.  Money' 
penny  had  succeeded  in  introducing  to  the  notice  of 
seven  little  expectant  brothers  and  sisters  a  "  remarkably 
fine  child,"  and  was  now  hurrying  home  in  the  sweet  hope 
of  a  comfortable  "  snooze  "  for  a  couple  of  hours  before 
the  announcement  of  tea  and  muffins  should  arouse  him 


76  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

to  fresh  exertion.  The  road  at  this  particular  spot  had, 
even  then,  been  cut  deep  below  the  surface  of  the  soil, 
for  the  purpose  of  diminishing  the  abruptness  of  the 
descent,  and,  as  either  side  of  the  superincumbent  banks 
was  closed  with  a  thick  mantle  of  tangled  copsewood, 
the  passage,  even  by  day,  was  sufficiently  obscure,  the 
level  beams  of  the  rising  or  setting  sun,  as  they  happened 
to  enfilade  the  gorge,  alone  illuminating  its  recesses.  A 
long  stream  of  rosy  light  was  just  beginning  to  make  its 
way  through  the  vista,  and  Mr.  Moneypenny's  nose  had 
scarcely  caught  and  reflected  its  kindred  ray,  when  the 
sturdiest  and  most  active  cob  that  ever  rejoiced  in  the 
appellation  of  a  "  Suffolk  Punch  "  brought  herself  up  in 
mid  career  upon  her  haunches,  and  that  with  a  sudden- 
ness which  had  almost  induced  her  rider  to  describe  that 
beautiful  mathematical  figure,  the  parabola,  between  her 
ears.  Peggy  —  her  name  was  Peggy  —  stood  stock-still, 
snorting  like  a  stranded  grampus,  and  alike  insensible  to 
the  gentle  hints  afforded  her  by  hand  and  heel. 

"  Teh  !  —  tch  !  —  get  along,  Peggy !  "  half  exclaimed, 
half  whistled  the  equestrian.  If  ever  steed  said  in  its 
heart,  "  I  '11  be  shot  if  I  do  ! "  it  was  Peggy  at  that 
moment.  She  planted  her  forelegs  deep  in  the  sandy 
soil,  raised  her  stump  of  a  tail  to  an  elevation  approach- 
ing the  horizontal,  protruded  her  nose  like  a  pointer  at 
a  covey,  and  with  expanded  nostril  continued  to  snuffle 
most  egregiously. 

Mr.  Geoffrey  Gambado,  the  illustrious  "  Master  of  the 
Horse  to  the  Doge  of  Venice,"  tells  us,  in  his  far-famed 
treatise  on  the  Art  Equestrian,  that  the  most  embarrassing 
position  in  which  a  rider  can  be  placed  is,  when  he  wishes 


JEEEY   JAEVIS'S    WIG.  77 

to  go  one  way,  and  his  horse  is  determined  to  go  another. 
There  is,  to  be  sure,  a  tertium  quid,  which,  though  it 
"splits  the  difference,"  scarcely  obviates  the  inconven- 
ience ;  this  is  when  the  parties  compromise  the  matter  by 
not  going  any  way  at  all,  —  to  this  compromise  Peggy  and 
her  (soi-disani)  master  were  now  reduced  ;  they  had  fairly 
joined  issue.  "Budge!"  quoth  the  doctor.  "Budge 
not !  "  quoth  the  fiend,  —  for  nothing  short  of  a  fiend 
could,  of  a  surety,  inspire  Peggy  at  such  a  time  with 
such  unwonted  obstinacy.  Moneypenny  whipped  and 
spurred ;  Peggy  plungad  and  reared  and  kicked ;  and  for 
several  minutes,  to  a  superficial  observer,  the  termination 
of  the  contest  might  have  appeared  uncertain ;  but  your 
profound  thinker  sees  at  a  glance  that,  however  the  scales 
may  appear  to  vibrate,  when  the  question  between  the 
sexes  is  one  of  perseverance,  it  is  quite  a  lost  case  for 
the  masculine  gender.  Peggy  beat  the  doctor  "all  to 
sticks,"  and,  when  he  was  fairly  tired  of  goading  and 
thumping,  maintained  her  position  as  firmly  as  ever. 

It  is  of  no  great  use,  and  not  particularly  agreeable, 
to  sit  still,  on  a  cold  frosty  morning  in  January,  upon  the 
outside  of  a  brute  that  will  neither  go  forwards  nor 
backwards  ;  so  Mr.  Moneypenny  got  oft7,  and  muttering 
curses  both  "loud"  and  "deep  "  between  his  chattering 
teeth,  "  progressed  "  as  near  as  the  utmost  extremity  of 
the  extended  bridle  would  allow  him,  to  peep  among  the 
weeds  and  brushwood  that  flanked  the  road,  in  order  to 
discover,  if  possible,  what  it  was  that  so  exclusively 
attracted  the  instinctive  attention  of  his  Bucephalus. 

His  curiosity  was  not  long  at  fault;  the  sunbeam 
glanced  partially  upon  some  object  ruddier  even  than 


78  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

itself,  —  it  was  a  scarlet  waistcoat,  the  wearer  of  which, 
overcome  perchance  by  Christmas  compotation,  seemed 
to  have  selected  for  his  "  thrice-driven  bed  of  down  " 
the  thickest  clump  of  the  tallest  and  most  imposing 
nettles,  thereon  to  doze  away  the  narcotic  effects  of 
superabundant  juniper. 

This,  at  least,  was  Mr.  Moneypenny's  belief,  or  he 
would  scarcely  have  uttered,  at  the  highest  pitch  of  his 
contralto,  "  TVhat  are  you  doing  there,  you  drunken 
rascal  ?  frightening  my  horse ! "  We  have  already 
hinted,  if  not  absolutely  asserted,  that  Peggy  was  a 
mare  ;  but  this  was  no  time  for  verbal  criticism.  "  Get 
up,  I  say,  —  get  up,  and  go  home,  you  scoundrel ! " 
But  the  "  scoundrel "  and  "  drunken  rascal "  answered  not ; 
he  moved  not,  nor  could  the  prolonged  shouting  of  the 
appellant,  aided  by  significant  explosions  from  a  double- 
thonged  whip,  succeed  in  eliciting  a  reply.  No  motion 
indicated  that  the  recumbent  figure,  whose  outline  alone 
was  visible,  was  a  living  and  a  breathing  man  ! 

The  clear,  shrill  tones  of  a  ploughboy's  whistle  sounded 
at  this  moment  from  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  where  the 
broad  and  green  expanse  of  Bomney  Marsh  stretches 
away  from  its  foot  for  many  a  mile,  and  now  gleamed 
through  the  mists  of  morning,  dotted  and  enamelled  with 
its  thousand  flocks.  In  a  few  minutes  his  tiny  figure  was 
seen  "  slouching  "  up  the  ascent,  casting  a  most  dispro- 
portionate and  ogre-like  shadow  before  him. 

"  Come  here,  Jack,"  quoth  the  doctor,  —  "  come  here, 
boy ;  lay  hold  of  this  bridle,  and  mind  that  my  horse 
does  not  run  away." 

Peggy  threw  up  her  head,  and  snorted  disdain  of  the 


JERRY   JARVIS'S   WIG.  79 

insinuation ;  she  had  not  the  slightest  intention  of  doing 
any  such  thing. 

Mr.  Moneypenny  meanwhile,  disencumbered  of  his 
restive  nag,  proceeded,  by  manual  application,  to  arouse 
the  sleeper. 

Alas !  the  Seven  of  Ephesus  might  sooner  have  been 
awakened  from  their  century  of  somnolency.  His  was 
that  "  dreamless  sleep  that  knows  no  waking  " ;  his  cares 
in  this  world  were  over.  Vainly  did  Moneypenny  prac- 
tise his  own  constant  precept,  "To  be  well  shaken  ! " 
—  there  lay  before  him  the  lifeless  body  of  a  MURDERED 
MAN! 

The  corpse  lay  stretched  upon  its  back,  partially 
concealed,  as  we  have  before  said,  by  the  nettles  which 
had  sprung  up  among  the  stumps  of  the  half-grubbed 
underwood ;  the  throat  was  fearfully  lacerated,  and  the 
dark,  deep,  arterial  dye  of  the  coagulated  blood  showed 
that  the  carotid  had  been  severed.  There  was  little  to 
denote  the  existence  of  any  struggle;  but  as  the  day 
brightened,  the  sandy  soil  of  the  road  exhibited  an 
impression  as  of  a  body  that  had  fallen  on  its  plastic 
surface,  and  had  been  dragged  to  its  present  position^ 
while  fresh  horseshoe-prints  seemed  to  intimate  that 
either  the  assassin  or  his  victim  had  been  mounted.  The 
pockets  of  the  deceased  were  turned  out  and  empty ;  a 
hat  and  heavy -loaded  whip  lay  at  no  great  distance  from 
the  body. 

"  But  what  have  we  here  ?  "  quoth  Dr.  Moneypenny ; 
"what  is  it  that  the  poor  fellow  holds  so  tightly  in  his 
hand  ?  " 

That  hand  had  manifestly  clutched  some  article  with 


80  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

all  the  spasmodic  energy  of  a  dying  grasp.      IT  WAS  AN 
OLD  WIG  ! 

Those  who  are  fortunate  enough  to  have  seen  a  Cinque 
Port  court-house  may  possibly  divine  what  that  useful  and 
most  necessary  edifice  was  some  eighty  years  ago.  Many 
of  them  seem  to  have  undergone  little  alteration,  and  are 
in  general  of  a  composite  order  of  architecture,  a  fanci- 
ful arrangement  of  brick  and  timber,  with  what  Johnson 
would  have  styled  "  interstices,  reticulated,  and  decussated 
between  intersections "  of  lath  and  plaster.  Its  less 
euphonious  designation  in  the  "  Weald  "  is  a  ' '  noggin." 
One  half  the  basement  story  is  usually  of  the  more  solid 
material ;  the  other,  open  to  the  street,  —  from  which  it 
is  separated  only  by  a  row  of  dingy  columns,  supporting  a 
portion  of  the  superstructure, — is  paved  with  tiles,  and 
sometimes  does  duty  as  a  market-place,  while,  in  its 
centre,  flanking  the  board  staircase  that  leads  to  the 
sessions-house  above,  stands  an  ominous-looking  machine, 
of  heavy  perforated  wood,  clasped  within  whose  stern 
embrace  "the  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep"  off 
occasionally  the  drowsiness  produced  by  convivial  excess, 
in  a  most  undignified  position,  —  an  inconvenience  much 
increased  at  times  by  some  mischievous  urchin,  who,  after 
abstracting  the  shoes  of  the  helpless  detenu,  amuses  him- 
self by  tickling  the  soles  of  his  feet. 

It  was  in  such  a  place,  or  rather  in  the  court-room 
above,  that  in  the  year  1761  a  hale,  robust  man,  some- 
what past  the  middle  age,  with  a  very  bald  pate,  save 
where  a  continued  tuft  of  coarse,  wiry  hair,  stretching 
from  above  each  ear,  swelled  out  into  a  grayish-looking 


JERRY    J^RVIS'S    WIG.  81 

bush  upon  the  occiput,  held  up  his  hand  before  a  grave 
and  enlightened  assemblage  of  Dymchurch  jurymen.  He 
stood  arraigned  for  that  offence  most  heinous  in  the  sight 
of  God  and  man,  the  deliberate  and  cold-blooded  butchery 
of  an  unoffending,  unprepared  fellow-creature, —  homici- 
dium  quod  nullo  vidente)t  nullo  auscultante,  clam  perpe- 
tratur. 

The  victim  was  one  Humphry  Bourne,  a  reputable 
grazier  of  Ivychurch,  worthy  and  well-to-do,  though,  per- 
chance, a  thought  too  apt  to  indulge  on  a  market-day, 
when  "  a  score  of  ewes  "  had  brought  in  a  reasonable 
profit.  Some  such  cause  had  detained  him  longer  than 
usual  at  an  Ashford  cattle-show ;  he  had  left  the  town 
late,  and  alone ;  early  in  the  following  morning  his  horse 
was  found  standing  at  his  own  stable-door,  the  saddle 
turned  round  beneath  its  belly,  and  much  about  the  time 
that  the  corpse  of  its  unfortunate  master  was  discovered 
some  four  miles  off,  by  our  friend  the  pharmacopolist. 

That  poor  Bourne  had  been  robbed  and  murdered  there 
could  be  no  question. 

Who,  then,  was  the  perpetrator  of  the  atrocious  deed  ? 
The  unwilling  hand  almost  refuses  to  trace  the  name 
of — Joseph  Washford. 

Yet  so  it  was.  Mr.  Jeremiah  Jarvis  was  himself  the 
coroner  for  that  division  of  the  county  of  Kent  known 
by  the  name  of  "  The  Lath  of  Scraye."  He  had  not  sat 
two  minutes  on  the  body  before  he  recognized  his  quondam 
property,  and  started  at  beholding  in  the  grasp  of  the 
victim,  as  torn  in  the  death-struggle  from  the  murderer's 
head,  his  own  OLD  WIG  !  —  his  own  perky  little  pigtail, 
tied  up  with  a  piece  of  shabby  shalloon,  now  wriggling 
4*  r 


82  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

and  quivering,  as  in  salutation  of  its  ancient  master. 
The  silver  buckles  of  the  murdered  man  \vere  found  in 
Joe  Washtbrd's  shoes,  —  broad  pieces  were  found  in  Joe 
Washford's  pockets,  —  Joe  Washford  had  himself  been 
found,  when  the  hue-and-cry  was  up,  hid  in  a  corn-rig  at 
no  great  distance  from  the  scene  of  slaughter,  his  pruniug- 
knife  red  with  the  evidence  of  his  crime,  —  "  the  gray  hairs 
yet  stuck  to  the  haft  !  " 

For  their  humane  administration  of  the  kws,  the  lieges 
of  this  portion  of  the  realm  have  long  been  celebrated. 
Here  it  was  that  merciful  verdict  was  recorded  in  the 
case  of  the  old  lady  accused  of  larceny,  "  We  find  her 
Not  Guilty,  and  hope  she  will  never  do  so  any  more  !  " 
Here  it  was  that  the  more  experienced  culprit,  when 
called  upon  to  plead  with  the  customary,  though  some- 
what superfluous  inquiry,  as  to  "how  he  would  be  tried," 
substituted  for  the  usual  reply  "  By  God  and  my  country," 
that  of,  "  By  your  worship  and  a  Dymchurch  jury."  Here 
it  was  — but  enough  !  — not  even  a  Dymchurch  jury  could 
resist  such  evidence,  even  though  the  gallows  (i.  e.  the 
expense  of  erecting  one)  stared  them,  as  well  as  the 
criminal,  in  the  face.  The  very  pigtail  alone  !  —  ever  at 
his  ear !  —  a  clearer  case  of  suadente  Diabolo  never  was 
made  out.  Had  there  been  a  doubt,  its  very  conduct  in 
the  court-house  would  have  settled  the  question.  The 
Rev.  Joel  Ingoldsby,  umquhile  chaplain  to  the  Romney 
Bench,  has  left  upon  record  that  when  exhibited  in 
evidence,  together  with  the  blood-stained  knife,  its 
twistings,  its  caperings,  its  gleeful  evolutions,  quite 
"  flabbergasted "  the  jury,  and  threw  all  beholders  into 
a  consternation.  It  was  remarked,  too,  by  many  in  the 


JERftY   JARVIS'S   WIG.  83 

court,  that  the  Forensic  Wig  of  the  Recorder  himself 
was,  on  that  trying  occasion,  palpably  agitated,  and  that 
its  three  depending,  learned-looking  tails  lost  curl  at  once, 
and  slunk  beneath  the  obscurity  of  the  powdered  collar, 
just  as  the  boldest  dog  recoils  from  a  rabid  animal  of  its 
own  species,  however  small  and  insignificant. 

Why  prolong  the  painful  scene  ?  Joe  Washford  was 
tried,  —  Joe  Washford  was  convicted,  —  Joe  Washford 
was  hanged ! 

The  fearful  black  gibbet,  on  which  his  body  clanked  in 
its  chains  to  the  midnight  winds,  frowns  no  more  upon 
Orlestone  Hill ;  it  has  sunk  beneath  the  encroaching  hand 
of  civilization;  but  there  it  might  be  seen  late  in  the 
last  century,  an  awful  warning  to  all  bald-pated  gentle- 
men how  they  wear,  or  accept,  the  old  wig  of  a  Special 
Attorney. 

"  Timeo  Danaos  et  dona  ferentes !  " 

Such  gifts,  as  we  have  seen,  may  lead  to  a  "  Morbid 
Delusion,  the  climax  of  which  is  Murder ! " 

The  fate  of  the  Wig  itself  is  somewhat  doubtful; 
nobody  seems  to  have  recollected,  with  any  degree  of 
precision,  what  became  of  it.  Mr.  Ingoldsby  "  had  heard  " 
that,  when  thrown  into  the  fire  by  the  court-keeper,  after 
whizzing,  and  fizzling,  and  performing  all  sorts  of  super- 
natural antics  and  contortions,  it  at  length  whirled  up  the 
chimney  with  a  bang  that  was  taken  for  the  explosion  of 
one  of  the  Eeversham  powder-mills,  twenty  miles  off ; 
while  others  insinuate  that  in  the  "  Great  Storm  "  which 
took  place  on  the  night  when  Mr.  Jeremiah  Jarvis  went 
to  his  "  long  home,"  —  wherever  that  may  happen  to  be, 
—  and  the  whole  of  "  The  Marsh  "  appeared  as  one  broad 


84  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

sheet  of  flame,  something  that  looked  very  like  a  Fiery 
Wig  —  perhaps  a  miniature  Comet  —  it  had  unquestion- 
ably a  tail  —  was  seen  careering  in  the  blaze,  and 
seeming  to  "ride  on  the  whirlwind  and  direct  the 
storm." 


BEAUTY  AND   THE    BEAST. 

BY  NATHANIEL  PARKER  WILLIS. 

HAVE  always  been  very  fond  of  the  society 
of  portrait-painters.  Whether  it  is  that  the 
pursuit  of  a  beautiful  and  liberal  art  softens 
their  natural  qualities,  or  that,  from  the  habit  of  con- 
versing while  engrossed  with  the  pencil,  they  like  best 
that  touch-and-go  talk  which  takes  care  of  itself;  or, 
more  probably  still,  whether  the  freedom  with  which 
they  are  admitted  behind  the  curtains  of  vanity  and 
affection  gives  a  certain  freshness  and  truth  to  their 
views  of  things  around  them,  —  certain  it  is,  that,  in  all 
countries,  their  rooms  are  the  most  agreeable  of  haunts, 
and  they  themselves  the  most  enjoyable  of  cronies. 
I  had  chanced,  in  Italy,  to  make  the  acquaintance  of 

S ,  an  English  artist  of  considerable  cleverness  in 

his  profession,  but  more  remarkable  for  his  frank  good- 
breeding  and  his  abundant  good-nature.  Four  years 
after,  I  had  the  pleasure  of  renewing  my  intercourse 
with  him  in  London,  where  he  was  nourishing,  quite 
up  to  his  deserving,  as  a  portrait-painter.  His  rooms 
were  hard  by  one  of  the  principal  thoroughfares,  and, 
from  making  an  occasional  visit,  I  grew  to  frequenting 


86  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

them  daily,  often  joining  him  at  his  early  breakfast,  and 
often  taking  him  out  with  me  to  drive  whenever  we 
chanced  to  tire  of  our  twilight  stroll.  While  rambling 
in  Hyde  Park,  one  evening,  I  mentioned,  for  the  twen- 
tieth time,  a  singularly  ill-assorted  couple  I  had  once 
or  twice  met  at  his  room,  —  a  woman  of  superb  beauty, 
attended  by  a  very  inferior-looking  and  ill-dressed  man. 
S had,  previously,  with  a  smile  at  my  specula- 
tions, dismissed  the  subject  rather  crisply ;  but,  on  this 
occasion,  I  went  into  some  surmises  as  to  the  probable 
results  of  such  "pairing  and  matching,"  and  he  either 
felt  called  upon  to  defend  the  lady,  or  made  my  mis- 
apprehension of  her  character  an  excuse  for  telling  me 
what  he  knew  about  her.  He  began  the  story  in  the 
Park,  and  ended  it  over  a  bottle  of  wine  in  the  Hay- 
market,  —  of  course,  with  many  interruptions  and  digres- 
sions. Let  me  see  if  I  can  tie  his  broken  threads 
together. 

"  That  lady  is  Mrs.  Fortescue  Titton,  and  the  gentle- 
man you  so  much  disparage  is,  if  you  please,  the  encum- 
brance to  ten  thousand  a  year,  —  the  money  as  much 
at  her  service  as  the  husband  by  whom  she  gets  it. 
Whether  he  could  have  won  her,  had  he  been 

'  Bereft  and  gelded  of  his  patrimony,' 

I  will  not  assert,  especially  to  one  who  looks  on  them 
as  '  Beauty  and  the  Beast ' ;  but  that  she  loves  him, 
or,  at  least,  prefers  to  him  no  handsomer  man,  I  may  say 
I  have  been  brought  to  believe,  in  the  way  of  my  pro- 
fession." 
"  You  have  painted  her,  then  ?  "  I  asked  rather  eagerly, 


BEAUTY  AND  THE  BEAST.         87 

thinking  I  might  get  a  sketch  of  her  face  to  take  with 
me  to  another  country. 

"  No,  but  I  have  painted  him,  —  and  for  her,  —  and  it 
is  not  a  case  of  Titania  and  Bottom,  either.  She  is  quite 
aware  he  is  a  monster;  and  wanted  his  picture  for  a  rea- 
son you  would  never  divine.  But  I  must  begin  at  the 
beginning. 

"  After  you  left  me  in  Italy,  I  was  employed,  by  the 
Earl  of ,  to  copy  one  or  two  of  his  favorite  pic- 
tures in  the  Vatican,  and  that  brought  me  rather  well 
acquainted  with  his  son.  Lord  George  was  a  gay  youth, 
and  a  very  '  look-and-die '  style  of  fellow ;  and,  as  much 
from  admiration  of  his  beauty  as  anything  else,  I  asked 
him  to  sit  to  me,  on  our  return  to  London.  I  painted 
him  very  fantastically  in  an  Albanian  cap  and  Oriental 
morning-gown  and  slippers,  smoking  a  nargile ;  the 
room  in  which  he  sat,  by  the  way,  being  a  correct  por- 
trait of  his  own  den,  —  a  perfect  museum  of  costly  lux- 
ury. It  was  a  pretty  gorgeous  turnout,  in  the  way  of 
color,  and  was  severely  criticised,  but  still  a  good  deal 
noticed,  —  for  I  sent  it  to  the  exhibition. 

"I  was  one  day  going  into  Somerset  House,  when 
Lord  George  hailed  me,  from  his  cab.  He  wished  to 
suggest  some  alteration  in  his  picture,  or  to  tell  me  of 
some  criticism  upon  it,  —  I  forget  exactly  what ;  but  we 
went  up  together.  Directly  before  the  portrait,  gazing 
at  it  with  marked  abstraction,  stood  a  beautiful  woman, 
quite  alone ;  and,  as  she  occupied  the  only  point  where 
the  light  was  favorable,  we  waited  a  moment,  till  she 
should  pass  on,  — Lord  George,  of  course,  rather  disposed 
to  shrink  from  being  recognized  as  the  original.  The 


88  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

woman's  interest  in  the  picture  seemed  rather  to  increase, 
however;  and,  what  with  variations  of  the  posture  of 
her  head,  and  pulling  at  her  glove-fingers,  and  other 
female  indications  of  restlessness  and  enthusiasm,  I 
thought  I  was  doing  her  no  injustice  by  turning  to  my 
companion  with  a  congratulatory  smile. 

"  '  It  seems  a  case,  by  Jove  ! '  said  Lord  George,  try- 
ing to  look  as  if  it  were  a  matter  of  very  simple  occur- 
rence ;  '  and  she  's  as  fine  a  creature  as  I  've  seen  this 
season!  Eh,  old  boy?  T7e  must  run  her  down,  and 
see  where  she  burrows,  —  and  there  's  nobody  with  her, 
by  good  luck  ! ' 

"  A  party  entered  just  then,  and  passed  between  her 
and  the  picture.  She  looked  annoyed,  I  thought,  but 
started  forward,  and  borrowed  a  catalogue  of  a  little 
girl ;  and  we  could  see  that  she  turned  to  the  last  page, 
on  which  the  portrait  was  numbered,  with,  of  course, 
the  name  and  address  of  the  painter.  She  made  a  memo- 
randum on  one  of  her  cards,  and  left  the  house.  Lord 
George  followed,  and  I,  too,  as  far  as  the  door,  where 
I  saw  her  get  into  a  very  stylishly  appointed  carriage 
and  drive  away,  followed  closely  by  the  cab  of  my  friend, 
whom  I  had  declined  to  accompany. 

"You  wouldn't  have  given  very  heavy  odds  against 

his  chance,  would  you  ?  "  said  S ,  after  a  moment's 

pause. 

"  No,  indeed !  "  I  answered,  quite  sincerely. 

"Well,  I  was  at  work  the  next  morning,  glazing  a 
picture  I  had  just  finished,  when  the  servant  brought 
up  the  card  of  Mrs.  Eortescue  Titton.  I  chanced  to 
be  alone,  so  the  lady  was  shown  at  once  into  my  paint- 


BEAUTY  AND  THE  BEAST.          89 

ing-room ;  and  lo !  the  incognita  of  Somerset  House. 
The  plot  thickens,  thought  I!  She  sat  down  in  my 
'subject'  chair;  and,  faith!  her  beauty  quite  dazzled 
me !  Her  first  smile  —  But  you  have  seen  her ;  so 
I  '11  not  bore  you  with  a  description. 

"  Mrs.  Titton  blushed  on  opening  her  errand  to  me ; 
first,  inquiring  if  I  was  the  painter  of  'No.  403,'  in  the 
exhibition,  and  saying  some  very  civil  things  about  the 
picture.  I  mentioned  that  it  was  a  portrait  of  Lord 

George  (for  his  name  was  not  in  the  catalogue), 

and  I  thought  she  blushed  still  more  confusedly ;  but 
that,  I  think  now,  was  fancy,  or  at  any  rate  had  nothing 
to  do  with  feeling  for  his  Lordship.  It  was  natural 
enough  for  me  to  be  mistaken;  for  she  was  very  par- 
ticular in  her  inquiries  as  to  the  costume,  furniture,  and 
little  belongings  of  the  picture,  and  asked  me,  among 
other  things,  whether  it  was  a  flattered  likeness  ?  —  this 
last  question  very  pointedly,  too  ! 

"  She  arose  to  go.  Was  I  at  leisure  ?  and  could  I 
sketch  a  head  for  her?  and  when? 

"  I  appointed  the  next  day,  expecting,  of  course,  that 
the  subject  was  the  lady  herself,  and  scarcely  slept  with 
thinking  of  it,  and  starved  myself  at  breakfast  to  have 
a  clear  eye  and  a  hand  wide  awake.  And  at  ten  she 
came,  with  her  Mr.  Fortescue  Titton !  I  was  sorry  to 
see  that  she  had  a  husband ;  for  I  had  indulged  myself 
with  a  vague  presentiment  that  she  was  a  widow;  but 
I  begged  him  to  take  a  chair,  and  prepared  the  platform 
for  my  beautiful  subject. 

"'Will  you  take  your  seat?'  I  asked,  with  all  my 
suavity,  when  my  palette  was  ready. 


90  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

"'My  dear/  said  she,  turning  to  her  husband,  and 
pointing  to  the  chair,  '  Mr.  S is  ready  for  you.' 

"I  begged  pardon  for  a  moment,  crossed  over  to 
Verey's,  and  bolted  a  beefsteak !  A  cup  of  coffee,  and 
a  glass  of  Curafoa,  and  a  little  walk  round  Hanover 
Square,  and  I  recovered  from  the  shock  a  little.  It 
went  very  hard,  I  give  you  my  word. 

"I  returned,  and  took  a  look,  for  the  first  time,  at 
Mr.  Titton.  You  have  seen  him,  and  have  some  idea 
of  what  his  portrait  might  be,  considered  as  a  pleasure 
to  the  artist,  —  what  it  might  promise,  I  should  rather 
say;  for,  after  all,  I  ultimately  enjoyed  working  at  it, 
quite  aside  from  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Titton.  It  was 
the  ugliest  face  in  the  world,  but  full  of  good-nature ; 
and,  as  I  looked  closer  into  it,  I  saw,  among  its  coarse 
features,  lines  of  almost  feminine  delicacy,  and  capabili- 
ties of  enthusiasm,  of  which  the  man  himself  was  prob- 
ably unconscious.  Then  a  certain  helpless  style  of  dress 
was  a  wet  blanket  to  him.  Rich  from  his  cradle,  I  sup- 
pose his  qualities  had  never  been  needed  on  the  surface. 
His  wife  knew  them. 

"  From  time  to  time,  as  I  worked,  Mrs.  Titton  came 
and  looked  over  my  shoulder.  With  a  natural  desire  to 
please  her,  I  here  and  there  softened  a  harsh  line,  and 
was  going  on  to  natter  the  likeness,  — not  as  successfully 
as  I  could  wish,  however ;  for  it  is  much  easier  to  get  a 
faithful  likeness  than  to  flatter  without  destroying  it. 

"'Mr.  S ,'  said  she,  laying  her  hand  on  my 

arm,  as  I  thinned  away  the  lumpy  rim  of  his  nostril, 
CI  want,  first,  a  literal  copy  of  my  husband's  features. 
Suppose,  with  this  idea,  you  take  a  fresh  canvas.' 


BEAUTY  AND  THE  BEAST.         91 

"Thoroughly  mystified  by  the  whole  business,  I  did 
as  she  requested,  and,  in  two  sittings,  made  a  likeness 
of  Titton  which  would  have  given  you  a  face-ache.  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders  at  it,  and  seemed  very  glad  when 
the  bore  of  sitting  was  over;  but  they  seemed  to  under- 
stand each  other  very  well,  or,  if  not,  he  reserved  his 
questions  till  there  could  be  no  restraint  upon  the  an- 
swer. He  seemed  a  capital  fellow,  and  I  liked  him 
exceedingly. 

"I  asked  if  I  should  frame  the  picture,  and  send  it 
home  ?  No !  I  was  to  do  neither.  If  I  would  be  kind 
enough  not  to  show  it,  nor  mention  it  to  any  one,  and 
come  next  day  and  dine  with  them,  en  famille,  Mrs. 
Titton  would  feel  very  much  obliged  to  me.  And  this 
dinner  was  followed  up  by  breakfasts  and  lunches  and 
suppers;  and  for  a  fortnight  I  really  lived  with  the 
Tittons:  and  pleasanter  people  to  live  with,  by  Jove, 
you  haven't  seen  in  your  travels,  though  you  are  ca 
picked  man  of  countries  ! ' 

"I  should  mention,  by  the  way,  that  I  was  always 
placed  opposite  Titton  at  table,  and  that  he  was  a  good 
deal  with  me,  one  way  and  another,  taking  me  out,  as  you 
do,  for  a  stroll,  calling  and  sitting  with  me  when  I  was  at 
work,  etc.  And  as  to  Mrs.  Titton,  if  I  did  not  mistrust 
your  arriere-pensee,  I  would  enlarge  a  little  on  my  intimacy 
with  Mrs.  Titton  !  But  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that, 
without  a  ray  of  flirtation,  we  became  as  cosily  intimate 
as  brother  and  sister." 

"And  what  of  Lord  George,  all  this  time?"  I 
asked. 

"  O,  Lord  George !    Well,  Lord  George,  of  course, 


92  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

had  no  difficulty  in  making  Mrs.  Titton's  acquaintance, 
though  they  were  not  quite  in  the  same  circle ;  and  he 
had  been  presented  to  her,  and  had  seen  her  at  a  party 
or  two,  where  he  managed  to  be  invited  on  purpose; 
but  of  this,  for  a  while,  I  heard  nothing.  She  had  not 
yet  seen  him  at  her  own  house,  and  I  had  not  chanced  to 
encounter  him.  But  let  me  go  on  with  my  story. 

"  Mrs.  Titton  sent  for  me  to  come  to  her  one  morning 
rather  early.  I  found  her  in  her  boudoir,  in  a  neglige 
morning-dress,  and  looking  adorably  beautiful,  and  as 
pure  as  beautiful,  you  smiling  villain !  She  seemed  to 
have  something  on  her  mind,  about  which  she  was  a  little 
embarrassed ;  but  I  knew  her  too  well  to  lay  any  unction 
to  my  soul.  We  chatted  about  the  weather  a  few 
moments,  and  she  came  to  the  point.  You  will  see  that 
she  was  a  woman  of  some  talent,  mon  ami ! 

"  '  Have  you  looked  at  my  husband's  portrait  since  you 
finished  it  ?  '  she  asked. 

"  '  No,  indeed  ! '  I  replied,  rather  hastily ;  but  imme- 
diately apologized. 

" '  0,  if  I  had  not  been  certain  you  would  not,'  she 
said,  with  a  smile,  '  I  should  have  requested  it,  for  I 
wished  you  to  forget  it,  as  far  as  possible.  And  now  let 
me  tell  you  what  I  want  of  you.  You  have  got,  on 
canvas,  a  likeness  of  Fortescue  as  the  world  sees  him. 
Since  taking  it,  however,  you  have  seen  him  more  inti- 
mately, and  —  and — like  his  face  better,  —  do  you  not  ?  ' 

" '  Certainly  !  certainly ! '  I  exclaimed,  in  all  sin- 
cerity. 

"  '  Thank  you  !  If  I  mistake  not,  then,  you  do  not, 
when  thinking  of  him,  call  up  to  your  mind  the  features 


BEAUTY  AND  THE  BEAST.         93 

in  your  portrait,  but  a  face  formed  rather  of  his  good 
qualities,  as  you  have  learned  to  trace  them  in  his 
expression.' 

"  *  True,5  I  said,  '  very  true  ! ' 

"  '  Now,  then,'  she  continued,  leaning  over  to  me  very 
earnestly,  '  I  want  you  to  paint  a  new  picture,  and,  with- 
out departing  from  the  real  likeness,  which  you  will  have 
to  guide  you,  breathe  into  it  the  expression  you  have  in 
your  ideal  likeness.  Add  —  to  what  the  world  sees  — 
what  I  see,  what  you  see,  what  all  who  love  him  see,  in 
his  plain  features.  Idealize  it,  spiritualize  it,  and  with- 
out lessening  the  resemblance.  Can  this  be  done  P  * 

"  I  thought  it  could.     I  promised  to  do  my  utmost. 

"  '  I  shall  call  and  see  you  as  you  progress  in  it,'  she 
said ;  '  and  now,  if  you  have  nothing  better  to  do,  stay  to 
lunch,  and  come  out  with  me  in  the  carriage.  I  want  a 
little  of  your  foreign  taste  in  the  selection  of  some  pretty 
nothings  for  a  gentleman's  toilet.' 

"We  passed  the  morning  in  making  what  I  should 
consider  very  extravagant  purchases  for  anybody  but  a 
prince-royal,  winding  up  with  some  delicious  cabinet 
pictures,  and  some  gems  of  statuary,  —  all  suited  only,  I 
should  say,  to  the  apartments  of  a  fastidious  luxuriast. 
I  was  not  yet  at  the  bottom  of  her  secret. 

"  I  went  to  work  upon  the  new  picture,  with  the  zeal 
always  given  to  an  artist  by  an  appreciative  and  confiding 
employer.  She  called  every  day,  and  made  important 
suggestions,  and  at  last  I  finished  it  to  her  satisfaction 
and  mine  ;  and,  without  speaking  of  it  as  a  work  of  art, 
I  may  give  you  my  opinion  that  Titton  will  scarcely  be 
more  embellished  in  the  other  world,  that  is,  if  it  be 


94  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

true,  as  the  divines  tell  us,  that  our  mortal  likeness  will 
be  so  far  preserved,  though  improved  upon,  that  we  shall 
be  recognizable  by  our  friends.  Still,  I  was  to  paint  a 
third  picture,  —  a  cabinet  full  length ;  and  for  this  the 
other  two  were  but  studies,  and  so  intended  by  Mrs. 
Fortescue  Titton.  It  was  to  be  an  improvement  upon 
Lord  George's  portrait  (which,  of  course,  had  given  her 
the  idea),  and  was  to  represent  her  husband  in  a  very 
costly  and  an  exceedingly  recherche  morning  costume,  — 
dressing-gown,  slippers,  waistcoat,  and  neckcloth  worn 
with  perfect  elegance,  and  representing  a  Titton  with  a 
faultless  attitude  (in  a  fauteuil,  reading),  a  faultless  ex- 
terior, and  around  him  the  most  sumptuous  appliances 
of  dressing-room  luxury.  This  picture  cost  me  a  great 
deal  of  vexation  and  labor ;  for  it  was  emphatically  a 
fancy  picture.  —  poor  Titton  never  having  appeared  in 
that  character,  even  '  by  particular  desire.'  I  finished  it, 
however,  and  again  to  her  satisfaction.  I  afterward  added 
some  finishing  touches  to  the  other  two,  and  sent  them 
home,  appropriately  framed  according  to  very  minute 
instructions." 

"  How  long  ago  was  this  ? "  I  asked. 

"  Three  years,"  replied  S ,  musing  over  his  wine. 

"  Well  —  the  sequel  ?  "  said  I,  a  little  impatient. 

"  I  was  thinking  how  I  should  let  it  break  upon  you, 
as  it  took  effect  upon  her  acquaintances ;  for,  understand, 
Mrs.  Titton  is  too  much  of  a  diplomatist  to  do  anything 
obviously  dramatic  in  this  age  of  ridicule.  She  knows 
very  well  that  any  sudden  ( flare-up'  of  her  husband's 
consequence,  any  new  light  on  his  character  obviously 
calling  for  attention,  would  awaken  speculation,  and  set 


BEAUTY  AND  THE  BEAST.         95 

to  work  the  watchful  anatomizers  of  the  body  fashion- 
able. Let  me  see  !  I  will  tell  you  what  I  should  have 
known  about  it,  had  I  been  only  an  ordinary  acquaintance, 
—  not  in  the  secret,  and  not  the  painter  of  the  pictures. 

"  Some  six  months  after  the  finishing  of  the  last  por- 
trait, I  was  at  a  large  ball  at  their  house.  Mrs.  Titton's 
beauty,  I  should  have  told  you,  and  the  style  in  which 
they  lived,  and,  very  possibly,  a  little  of  Lord  George's 
good-will,  had  elevated  them,  from  the  wealthy  and 
respectable  level  of  society,  to  the  fashionable  and  ex- 
clusive. All  the  best  people  went  there.  As  I  was 
going  in,  I  overtook,  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  a  very 
clever  little  widow,  an  acquaintance  of  mine,  and  she 
honored  me  by  taking  my  arm,  and  keeping  it  for  a 
promenade  through  the  rooms.  We  made  our  bow  to 
Mrs.  Titton,  and  strolled  across  the  reception-room, 
where  the  most  conspicuous  object,  dead  facing  us,  with 
a  flood  of  light  upon  it,  was  my  first  veracious  portrait  of 
Titton !  As  I  was  not  known  as  the  artist,  I  indulged 
myself  in  some  commonplace  exclamations  of  horror. 

"  '  Do  not  look  at  that,'  said  the  widow,  '  you  will 
distress  poor  Mrs.  Titton.  What  a  quiz  that  clever 
husband  of  hers  must  be,  to  insist  on  exposing  such  a 
caricature ! ' 

"  '  How  insist  upon  it  ?  '  I  asked. 

"  '  Why,  have  you  never  seen  the  one  in  her  boudoir  ? 
Come  with  me.' 

"  We  made  our  way  through  the  apartments,  to  the 
little  retreat  lined  with  silk,  which  was  the  morning 
lounge  of  the  fair  mistress  of  the  house.  There  was 
but  one  picture,  with  a  curtain  drawn  carefully  across 


unu   ;I_L- 


:-  :;- 


: 

;   .  . 


.  -    .-_    -  ... 


:-, 
•:   .:*•:*   :: 


-T 


_;   -  -  : 


BEAUTY    AXD   THE    BE  97 

within  himself.  That  'a  ike  reason  that  atrocious  por- 
trait is  hung  up  in  the  best  room,  and  tins  good  looking 
one  covered  up  with  a  curtain !  I  suppose  this  would  n't 
be  here,  if  he  could  have  his  own  way,  and  if  his  wife 
were  n't  so  much  in  lore  with  him ! ' 

"This,  I  assnre  you,"  said  S ,  "is  the  impres- 
sion throughout  their  circle  of  acquaintances.  Tile  Tit- 
tons  themselves  maintain  a  complete  «l**w<»  on  the 
subject.  Mr.  Fortescue  Titton  is  coasideitd  a  very 
accomplished  man,  with  a  very  proud  and  very  secret 
contempt  for  the  opinions  of  the  world,  —  dressing  badly 
on  purpose,  silent  and  simple  by  design,  and  only  earing 
to  show  nimsplf  in  his  real  character  to  his  beautiful 
wife,  who  is  thought  to  be  completely  in  lore  with  him, 
and  quite  excusable  for  it !  What  do  yon  think  of  the 
woman's  diplomatic  talents  ?  " 

"I  think  I  should  like  to  know  her,"  said  I;  "but 
what  says  Lord  George  to  afl  this?" 

I  had  a  call  from  Lord  George  not  long  ago,"  re- 
plied S ,   "and,  for  the  first  time  since  oar  chat 

at  Somerset  House,  the  conversation  turned  upon  the 
Ettou, 

'"Devilish  sly  of  you!'  said  his  Lordship,  turning  to 
me  half  angry;  'why  did  you  pretend  not  to  know  the 
woman  at  Somerset  House  ?  Yon  might  hare  saved  me 
lots  of  trouble  and  money,  for  I  was  a  month  or  two 
finding  out  what  sort  of  people  they  were,  —  feeing  the 
servants,  and  getting  them  called  on  and  invited  here 
and  there,—  aH  with  the  ifo  that  h  was  a  rich  dookey 
with  a  fine  toy  that  didn't  belong  to  him!' 

" '  Well ! '  exclaimed  I  — 

VOL.  ir.  5  a 


98  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

" '  Well!  —  not  at  all  -well !  I  made  a  great  ninny  of 
myself,  with  that  satirical  slyboots,  old  Titton,  laughing 
at  me  all  the  time,  when  you,  that  had  painted  him  in 
his  proper  character,  and  knew  what  a  deep  devil  he 
was,  might  have  saved  nie  with  but  half  a  hint ! ' 

"  '  You  have  been  in  the  lady's  boudoir,  then  ! ' 

" '  Yes,  and  in  the  gentleman's  sanctum  sanctorum ! 
Mrs.  Titton  sent  for  me  about  some  trumpery  thing  or 
other,  and  when  I  called,  the  servant  showed  me  in  there 
by  mistake.  There  was  a  great  row  in  the  house  about 
it,  but  I  was  there  long  enough  to  see  what  a  monstrous 
nice  time  the  fellow  has  of  it,  all  to  himself,  and  to  see 
your  picture  of  him  in  his  private  character.  The  pic- 
ture you  made  of  me  was  only  a  copy  of  that,  you  sly 
traitor !  And  I  suppose  Mrs.  Titton  did  n't  like  your 
stealing  from  hers,  did  she?  —  for,  I  take  it,  that  was 
what  ailed  her  at  the  exhibition,  when  you  allowed  me 
to  be  so  humbugged ! ' 

"  I  had  a  good  laugh ;  but  it  was  as  much  at  the  quiet 
success  of  Mrs.  Titton's  tactics,  as  at  Lord  George's 
discomfiture.  Of  course,  I  could  not  undeceive  him. 

And  now,"  continued  S ,  very  good-naturedly,  "just 

ring  for  a  pen  and  ink,  and  I'll  write  a  note  to  Mrs. 
Titton,  asking  leave  to  bring  you  there  this  evening, 
for  it 's  her  '  night  at  home,'  and  she  's  worth  seeing, 
if  my  pictures,  which  you  will  see  there,  are  not." 


DAVID   SWAN:    A   FANTASY. 


BY  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 


|E  can  be  but  partially  acquainted  even  with  the 
events  which  actually  influence  our  course 
through  life,  and  our  final  destiny.  There  are 
innumerable  other  events  —  if  such  they  may  be  called  — 
which  come  close  upon  us,  yet  pass  away  without  actual 
results,  or  even  betraying  their  near  approach  by  the 
reflection  of  any  light  or  shadow  across  our  minds. 
Could  we  know  all  the  vicissitudes  of  our  fortunes,  life 
would  be  too  full  of  hope  and  fear,  exultation  or  disap- 
pointment, to  afford  us  a  single  hour  of  true  serenity. 
This  idea  may  be  illustrated  by  a  page  from  the  secret 
history  of  David  Swan. 

We  have  nothing  to  do  with  David  until  we  find  him, 
at  the  age  of  twenty,  on  the  high-road  from  his  native 
place  to  the  city  of  Boston,  where  his  uncle,  a  small 
dealer  in  the  grocery  line,  was  to  take  him  behind  the 
counter.  Be  it  enough  to  say,  that  he  was  a  native  of 
New  Hampshire,  born  of  respectable  parents,  and  had 
received  an  ordinary  school  education,  with  a  classic 
finish  by  a  year  at  Gilmanton  Academy.  After  journey- 
ing on  foot,  from  sunrise  till  nearly  noon  of  a  summer's 


100  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

day,  his  weariness  and  the  increasing  heat  determined 
him  to  sit  down  in  the  first  convenient  shade,  and  await 
the  coming  up  of  the  stage-coach.  As  if  planted  on 
purpose  for  him,  there  soon  appeared  a  little  tuft  of 
maples,  with  a  delightful  recess  in  the  midst,  and  such 
a  fresh  bubbling  spring,  that  it  seemed  never  to  have 
sparkled  for  any  wayfarer  but  David  Swan.  Virgin  or 
not,  he  kissed  it  with  his  thirsty  lips,  and  then  flung 
himself  along  the  brink,  pillowing  his  head  upon  some 
shirts  and  a  pair  of  pantaloons,  tied  up  in  a  striped  cotton 
handkerchief.  The  sunbeams  could  not  reach  him  ;  the 
dust  did  not  yet  rise  from  the  road,  after  the  heavy  rain 
of  yesterday ;  and  his  grassy  lair  suited  the  young  man 
better  than  a  bed  of  down.  The  spring  murmured 
drowsily  beside  him  ;  the  branches  waved  dreamily  across 
the  blue  sky  overhead;  and  a  deep  sleep,  perchance 
hiding  dreams  within  its  depths,  fell  upon  David 
Swan.  But  we  are  to  relate  events  which  he  did  not 
dream  of. 

While  he  lay  sound  asleep  in  the  shade,  other  people 
were  wide  awake,  and  passed  to  and  fro,  afoot,  on  horse- 
back, and  in  all  sorts  of  vehicles,  along  the  sunny  road  by 
his  bedchamber.  Some  looked  neither  to  the  right  hand 
nor  the  left,  and  knew  not  that  he  was  there;  some 
merely  glanced  that  way,  without  admitting  the  slumberer 
among  their  busy  thoughts ;  some  laughed  to  see  how 
soundly  he  slept ;  and  several,  whose  hearts  were  brim- 
ming full  of  scorn,  ejected  their  venomous  superfluity 
on  David  Swan.  A  middle-aged  widow,  when  nobody 
else  was  near,  thrust  her  head  a  Little  way  into  the  recess, 
and  vowed  that  the  young  fellow  looked  charming  in 


DAVID    SWAN:    A   F5V]ST\ST.  101' 


his  sleep.  A  temperance  lecturer  »s^w;  hir^,  and  / 
poor  David  into  the  texture  of  SkS  •r/eisag>-s 
an  awfnl  instance  of  dead  drunkenness  by  the  roadside. 
But  censure,  praise,  merriment,  scorn,  and  indifference 
were  all  one,  or  rather  all  nothing,  to  David  Swan. 

He  had  slept  only  a  few  moments,  when  a  brown 
carriage,  drawn  by  a  handsome  pair  of  horses,  bowled 
easily  along,  and  was  brought  to  a  stand-still  nearly  in 
front  of  David's  resting-place.  A  linchpin  had  fallen  out, 
and  permitted  one  of  the  wheels  to  slide  off.  The  damage 
was  slight,  and  occasioned  merely  a  momentary  alarm  to 
an  elderly  merchant  and  his  wife,  who  were  returning  to 
Boston  in  the  carriage.  While  the  coachman  and  a 
servant  were  replacing  the  wheel,  the  lady  and  gentleman 
sheltered  themselves  beneath  the  maple-trees,  and  there 
espied  the  bubbling  fountain,  and  David  Swan  asleep 
beside  it.  Impressed  with  the  awe  which  the  humblest 
sleeper  usually  sheds  around  him,  the  merchant  trod  as 
lightly  as  the  gout  would  allow  ;  and  his  spouse  took 
good  heed  not  to  rustle  her  silk  gown,  lest  David  should 
start  up  all  of  a  sudden. 

"  How  soundly  he  sleeps  !  "  whispered  the  old  gentle- 
man. "  From  what  a  depth  he  draws  that  easy  breath  ! 
Such  sleep  as  that,  brought  on  without  an  opiate,  would 
be  worth  more  to  me  than  half  my  income  ;  for  it  would 
suppose  health  and  an  untroubled  mind." 

"  And  youth  besides,"  said  the  lady.  "  Healthy  and 
quiet  age  does  not  sleep  thus.  Our  slumber  is  no  more 
like  his,  than  our  wakefulness." 

The  longer  they  looked  the  more  did  this  elderly  couple 
feel  interested  in  the  unknown  youth,  to  whom  the  way- 


10,2 


i  TITLE    CLASSICS. 


.Sick  arid  the  m/ipls  sjitude  were  as  a  secret  chamber,  with 
the  rick'  gloom  ef  daii'.a'gk  curtains  brooding  over  him. ' 
Perceiving  that  a  stray  sunbeam  glimmered  down  upon 
his  face,  the  lady  contrived  to  twist  a  branch  aside,  so  as 
to  intercept  it.  And  having  done  this  little  act  of  kind- 
ness, she  began  to  feel  like  a  mother  to  him. 

"  Providence  seems  to  have  laid  him  here,"  whispered 
she  to  her  husband,  "  and  to  have  brought  us  hither  to 
find  him,  after  our  disappointment  in  our  cousin's  son. 
Methinks  I  can  see  a  likeness  to  our  departed  Henry. 
Shall  we  waken  him  ?  " 

"  To  what  purpose  ?  "  said  the  merchant,  hesitating. 
"We  know  nothing  of  the  youth's  character." 

"  That  open  countenance !  "  replied  his  wife,  in  the 
same  hushed  voice,  yet  earnestly.  "This  innocent 
sleep ! " 

While  these  whispers  were  passing,  the  sleeper's  heart 
did  not  throb,  nor  his  breath  become  agitated,  nor  his 
features  betray  the  least  token  of  interest.  Yet  Fortune 
Was  bending  over  him,  just  ready  to  let  fall  a  burden 
of  gold.  The  old  merchant  had  lost  his  only  son,  and 
had  no  heir  to  his  wealth,  except  a  distant  relative,  with 
whose  conduct  he  was  dissatisfied.  In  such  cases,  people 
sometimes  do  stranger  things  than  to  act  the  magician, 
and  awaken  a  young  man  to  splendor,  who  fell  asleep  in 
poverty. 

"  Shall  we  not  waken  him  ?  "  repeated  the  lady, 
persuasively. 

"  The  coach  is  ready,  sir,"  said  the  servant,  behind. 

The  old  couple  started,  reddened,  and  hurried  away, 
mutually  wondering  that  they  should  ever  have  dreamed, 


DAVID    SWAN  :    A    FANTASY.  103 

of  doing  anything  so  very  ridiculous.  The  merchant 
threw  himself  back  in  the  carriage,  and  occupied  his  mind 
with  the  plan  of  a  magnificent  asylum  for  unfortunate 
men  of  business.  Meanwhile,  David  Swan  enjoyed  his 
nap. 

The  carriage  could  not  have  gone  above  a  mile  or  two, 
when  a  pretty  young  girl  came  along,  with  a  tripping 
pace,  which  showed  precisely  how  her  little  heart  was 
dancing  in  her  bosom.  Perhaps  it  was  this  merry  kind 
of  motion  that  caused  — •  is  there  any  harm  in  saying  it  ? 
—  her  garter  to  slip  its  knot.  Conscious  that  the  silken 
girth  —  if  silk  it  were  —  was  relaxing  its  hold,  she  turned 
aside  into  the  shelter  of  the  maple-trees,  and  there  found 
a  young  man  asleep  by  the  spring !  Blushing  as  red  as 
any  rose,  that  she  should  have  intruded  into  a  gentleman's 
bedchamber,  and  for  such  a  purpose,  too,  she  was  about 
to  make  her  escape  on  tiptoe.  But  there  was  peril  near 
the  sleeper.  A  monster  of  a  bee  had  been  wandering 
overhead,  —  buzz,  buzz,  buzz,  —  now  among  the  leaves, 
now  flashing  through  the  strips  of  sunshine,  and  now  lost 
in  the  dark  shade,  till  finally  he  appeared  to  be  settling 
on  the  eyelid  of  David  Swan.  The  sting  of  a  bee  is 
sometimes  deadly.  As  free-hearted  as  she  was  innocent, 
the  girl  attacked  the  intruder  with  her  handkerchief, 
brushed  him  soundly,  and  drove  him  from  beneath  the 
maple  shade.  How  sweet  a  picture !  This  good  deed 
accomplished,  with  quickened  breath  and  a  deeper  blush, 
she  stole  a  glance  at  the  youthful  stranger  for  whom  she 
had  been  battling  with  a  dragon  in  the  air. 

"  He  is  handsome  ! "  thought  she,  and  blushed  redder 

yet. 


104  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

How  could  it  be  that  no  dream  of  bliss  grew  so  strong 
within  him,  that,  shattered  by  its  very  strength,  it  should 
part  asunder,  and.  allow  him  to  perceive  the  girl  among 
its  phantoms  ?  Why,  at  least,  did  no  smile  of  welcome 
brighten  upon  his  face  ?  She  was  come,  the  maid  whose 
soul,  according  to  the  old  and  beautiful  idea,  had  been 
severed  from  his  own,  and  whom,  in  all  his  vague  but 
passionate  desires,  he  yearned  to  meet.'  Her,  only,  could 
he  love  with  a  perfect  love,  —  him,  only,  could  she  receive 
into  the  depths  of  her  heart,  —  and  now  her  image  was 
faintly  blushing  in  the  fountain  by  his  side;  should  it 
pass  away,  its  happy  lustre  would  never  gleam  upon  his 
life  again. 

"  How  sound  he  sleeps  !  "  murmured  the  girl. 

She  departed,  but  did  not  trip  along  the  road  so  lightly 
as  when  she  came. 

Now,  this  girl's  father  was  a  thriving  country  mer- 
chant in  the  neighborhood,  and  happened,  at  that  iden- 
tical time,  to  be  looking  out  for  just  such  a  young  man 
as  David  Swan.  Had  David  formed  a  wayside  acquaint- 
ance with  the  daughter,  he  would  have  become  the 
father's  clerk,  and  all  else  in  natural  succession.  So 
here  again  had  good  fortune  —  the  best  of  fortunes  — 
stolen  so  near  that  her  garments  brushed  against  him; 
and  he  knew  nothing  of  the  matter. 

The  girl  was  hardly  out  of  sight,  when  two  men  turned 
aside  beneath  the  maple  shade.  Both  had  dark  faces, 
set  off  by  cloth  caps,  which  were  drawn  down  aslant 
over  their  brows.  Their  dresses  were  shabby,  yet  had 
a  certain  smartness.  These  were  a  couple  of  rascals, 
who  got  their  living  by  whatever  the  Devil  sent  them, 


DAVID    SWAN:    A   FANTASY.  105 

and  now,  in  the  interim  of  other  business,  had  staked 
the  joint  profits  of  their  next  piece  of  villany  on  a  game 
of  cards,  which  was  to  have  been  decided  here  under  the 
trees.  But,  finding  David  asleep  by  the  spring,  one  of 
the  rogues  whispered  to  his  fellow,  — 

"  Hist !     Do  you  see  that  bundle  under  his  head  ?  " 

The  other  villain  nodded,  winked,  and  leered. 

"I  '11  bet  you  a  horn  of  brandy,"  said  the  first,  "that 
the  chap  has  either  a  pocket-book,  or  a  snug  little  hoard 
of  small  change,  stowed  away  amongst  his  shirts.  And 
if  not  there,  we  shall  find  it  in  his  pantaloons-pocket." 

"  But  how  if  he  wakes  ?  "  said  the  other. 

His  companion  thrust  aside  his  waistcoat,  pointed  to 
the  handle  of  a  dirk,  and  nodded. 

"  So  be  it !  "  muttered  the  second  villain. 

They  approached  the  unconscious  David,  and,  while 
one  pointed  the  dagger  toward  his  heart,  the  other  began 
to  search  the  bundle  beneath  his  head.  Their  two  faces, 
grim,  wrinkled,  and  ghastly  with  guilt  and  fear,  bent 
over  their  victim,  looking  horrible  enough  to  be  mistaken 
for  fiends,  should  he  suddenly  awake.  Nay,  had  the 
villains  glanced  aside  into  the  spring,  even  they  would 
hardly  have  known  themselves,  as  reflected  there.  But 
David  Swan  had  never  worn  a  more  tranquil  aspect, 
even  when  asleep  on  his  mother's  breast. 

"  I  must  take  away  the  bundle,"  whispered  one. 

"  If  he  stirs,  I  '11  strike,"  muttered  the  other. 
But  at  this  moment  a  dog,  scenting  along  the  ground, 
came  in  beneath  the  maple-trees,  and  gazed  alternately 
at  each  of  these  wicked  men,  and  then  at  the  quiet 
sleeper.     He  then  lapped  out  of  the  fountain. 
5  * 


106  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

"  Pshaw ! "  said  one  villain.  "  We  can  do  nothing 
now.  The  dog's  master  must  be  close  behind." 

"Let 's  take  a  drink  and  be  off,"  said  the  other. 

The  man  with  the  dagger  thrust  back  the  weapon  into 
his  bosom,  and  drew  forth  a  pocket-pistol,  but  not  of 
that  kind  which  kills  by  a  single  discharge.  It  was  a 
flask  of  liquor.,  with  a  block-tin  tumbler  screwed  upon 
the  mouth.  Each  drank  a  comfortable  dram,  and  left 
the  spot,  with  so  many  jests,  and  such  laughter  at  their 
unaccomplished  wickedness,  that  they  might  be  said  to 
have  gone  on  their  way  rejoicing.  In  a  few  hours  they 
had  forgotten  the  whole  affair,  nor  once  imagined  that 
the  recording  angel  had  written  down  the  crime  of  mur- 
der against  their  souls,  in  letters  as  durable  as  eternity. 
As  for  David  Swan,  he  still  slept  quietly,  neither  con- 
scious of  the  shadow  of  death  when  it  hung  over  him, 
nor  of  the  glow  of  renewed  life,  when  that  shadow  was 
withdrawn. 

He  slept,  but  no  longer  so  quietly  as  at  first.  An 
hour's  repose  had  snatched  from  his  elastic  frame  the 
weariness  with  which  many  hours  of  toil  had  burdened  it. 
Now  he  stirre-I ;  now  moved  his  lips,  without  a  sound ; 
now  talked,  in  an  inward  tone,  to  the  noonday  spectres 
of  his  dream.  But  a  noise  of  wheels  came  rattling  louder 
and  louder  along  the  road,  until  it  dashed  through  the 
dispersing  mist  of  David's  slumber;  and  there  was  the 
stage-coach.  He  started  up,  with  all  his  ideas  about  him. 

"  Halloo,  driver !     Take  a  passenger  ?  "  shouted  he. 

"  Room  on  top  !  "  answered  the  driver. 

Up  mounted  David,  and  bowled  away  merrily  toward 
Boston,  without  so  much  as  a  parting  glance  at  that 


DAVID    SWAN  :    A   FANTASY.  107 

fountain  of  dreamlike  vicissitude.  He  knew  not  that 
a  phantom  of  Wealth  had  thrown  a  golden  hue  upon 
its  waters,  nor  that  one  of  Love  had  sighed  softly  to 
their  murmur,  nor  that  one  of  Death  had  threatened  to 
crimson  them  with  his  blood ;  all,  in  the  brief  hour  since 
he  lay  down  to  sleep.  Sleeping  or  waking,  we  hear  not 
the  airy  footsteps  of  the  strange  things  that  almost  hap- 
pen. Does  it  not  argue  a  superintending  Providence 
that,  while  viewless  and  unexpected  events  thrust  them- 
selves continually  athwart  our  path,  there  should  still 
be  regularity  enough,  in  mortal  life,  to  render  foresight 
even  partially  available? 


DREAMTHORP. 

BY   ALEXANDER  SMITH. 

1  matters  not  to  relate  how  or  when  I  became 
a  denizen  of  Dreamthorp ;  it  will  be  sufficient 
ISBUI  to  say  that  I  am  not  a  born  native,  but  that  I 
came  to  reside  in  it  a  good  while  ago  now.  The  several 
towns  and  villages  in  wliich,  in  my  time,  I  have  pitched 
a  tent  did  not  please,  for  one  obscure  reason  or  another : 
this  one  was  too  large,  t'  other  too  small ;  but  when,  on 
a  summer  evening  about  the  hour  of  eight,  I  first  beheld 
Dreamthorp,  with  its  westward-looking  windows  painted 
by  sunset,  its  children  playing  in  the  single  straggling 
street,  the  mothers  knitting  at  the  open  doors,  the  fathers 
standing  about  in  long  white  blouses,  chatting  or  smok- 
ing ;  the  great  tower  of  the  ruined  castle  rising  high  into 
the  rosy  air,  with  a  whole  troop  of  swallows,  —  by  dis- 
tance made  as  small  as  gnats,  —  skimming  about  its  rents 
and  fissures ;  when  I  first  beheld  all  this,  I  felt  instinc- 
tively that  my  knapsack  might  be  taken  off  my  shoulders, 
that  my  tired  feet  might  wander  no  more,  that  at  last, 
on  the  planet,  I  had  found  a  home.  From  that  evening 
I  have  dwelt  here,  and  the  only  journey  I  am  like  now 
to  make  is  the  very  inconsiderable  one,  so  far  at  least 


DEEAMTHORP.  109 

as  distance  is  concerned,  from  the  house  in  which  I  live 
to  the  graveyard  beside  the  ruined  castle.  There,  with 
the  former  inhabitants  of  the  place,  I  trust  to  sleep 
quietly  enough,  and  Nature  will  draw  over  our  heads 
her  coverlet  of  green  sod,  and  tenderly  tuck  us  in,  as  a 
mother  her  sleeping  ones,  so  that  no  sound  from  the 
world  shall  ever  reach  us,  and  no  sorrow  trouble  us  any 
more. 

The  village  stands  far  inland;  and  the  streams  that 
•£rot  through  the  soft  green  valleys  all  about  have  as 
little  knowledge  of  the  sea,  as  the  three  years'  child  of 
the  storms  and  passions  of  manhood.  The  surrounding 
country  is  smooth  and  green,  full  of  undulations;  and 
pleasant  country  roads  strike  through  it  in  every  direc- 
tion, bound  for  distant  towns  and  villages,  yet  in  no 
hurry  to  reach  them.  On  these  roads  the  lark  in  sum- 
mer is  continually  heard ;  nests  are  plentiful  in  the 
hedges  and  dry  ditches ;  and  on  the  grassy  banks,  and 
at  the  feet  of  the  bowed  dikes,  the  blue-eyed  speedwell 
smiles  its  benison  on  the  passing  wayfarer.  On  these 
roads  you  may  walk  for  a  year  and  encounter  nothing 
more  remarkable  than  the  country  cart,  troops  of  tawny 
children  from  the  woods,  laden  with  primroses,  and  at 
long  intervals  —  for  people  in  this  district  live  to  a  ripe 
age  —  a  black  funeral  creeping  in  from  some  remote 
hamlet ;  and  to  this  last  the  people  reverently  doff  their 
hats  and  stand  aside.  Death  does  not  walk  about  here 
often,  but  when  he  does,  he  receives  as  much  respect 
as  the  squire  himself.  Everything  round  one  is  unhur- 
ried, quiet,  moss-grown,  and  orderly.  Season  follows  in 
the  track  of  season,  and  one  year  can  hardly  be  distin- 


110  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

guished  from  another.  Time  should  be  measured  here 
by  the  silent  dial,  rather  than  by  the  ticking  clock,  or 
by  the  chimes  of  the  church.  Dreamthorp  can  boast 
of  a  respectable  antiquity,  and  in  it  the  trade  of  the 
builder  is  unknown.  Ever  since  I  remember,  not  a 
single  stone  has  been  laid  on  the  top  of  another.  The 
castle,  inhabited  now  by  jackdaws  and  starlings,  is  old ; 
the  chapel  which  adjoins  it  is  older  still;  and  the  lake 
behind  both,  and  in  which  their  shadows  sleep,  is,  I  sup- 
pose, as  old  as  Adam.  A  fountain  in  the  market-place, 
all  mouths  and  faces  and  curious  arabesques,  —  as  dry, 
however,  as  the  castle  moat,  —  has  a  tradition  connected 
with  it ;  and  a  great  noble,  riding  through  the  street  one 
day  several  hundred  years  ago,  was  shot  from  a  window 
by  a  man  whom  he  had  injured.  The  death  of  this  noble 
is  the  chief  link  which  connects  the  place  with  authentic 
history.  The  houses  are  old,  and  remote  dates  may  yet 
be  deciphered  on  the  stones  above  the  doors  ;  the  apple- 
trees  are  mossed  and  ancient ;  countless  generations  of 
sparrows  have  bred  in  the  thatched  roofs,  and  thereon 
have  chirped  out  their  lives.  In  every  room  of  the  place 
men  have  been  born,  men  have  died.  On  Dreamthorp 
centuries  have  fallen,  and  have  left  no  more  trace  than 
have  last  winter's  snow-flakes.  This  commonplace  se- 
quence and  flowing  on  of  life  is  immeasurably  affecting. 
That  winter  morning  when  Charles  lost  his  head  in  front 
of  the  banqueting-hall  of  his  own  palace,  the  icicles  hung 
from  the  eaves  of  the  houses  here,  and  the  clown  kicked 
the  snowballs  from  his  clouted  shoon,  and  thought  but 
of  his  supper,  when,  at  three  o'clock,  the  red  sun  set  in 
the  purple  mist.  On  that  Sunday  in  June  while  Waterloo 


DREAMTHORP.  Ill 

was  going  on,  the  gossips,  after  morning  service,  stood 
on  the  country  roads  discussing  agricultural  prospects, 
without  the  slightest  suspicion  that  the  day  passing  over 
their  heads  would  be  a  famous  one  in  the  calendar. 
Battles  have  been  fought,  kings  have  died,  history  has 
transacted  itself;  but,  all  unheeding  and  untouched, 
Dreamthorp  has  watched  apple-trees  redden,  and  wheat 
ripen,  and  smoked  its  pipe,  and  quaffed  its  mug  of  beer, 
and  rejoiced  over  its  new-born  children,  and  with  proper 
solemnity  carried  its  dead  to  the  churchyard.  As  I  gaze 
on  the  village  of  my  adoption,  I  think  of  many  things 
very  far  removed,  and  seem  to  get  closer  to  them.  The 
kst  setting  sun  that  Shakespeare  saw  reddened  the  win- 
dows here,  and  struck  warmly  on  the  faces  of  the  hinds 
coming  home  from  the  fields.  The  mighty  storm  that 
raged  while  Cromwell  lay  a-dying  made  all  the  oak-woods 
groan  round  about  here,  and  tore  the  thatch  from  the 
very  roofs  I  gaze  upon.  When  I  think  of  this,  I  can 
almost,  so  to  speak,  lay  my  hand  on  Shakespeare  and 
on  Cromwell.  These  poor  walls  were  contemporaries 
of  both,  and  I  find  something  affecting  in  the  thought. 
The  mere  soil  is,  of  course,  far  older  than  either,  but  it 
does  not  touch  one  in  the  same  way.  A  wall  is  the 
creation  of  a  human  hand,  the  soil  is  not. 

This  place  suits  my  whim,  and  I  like  it  better  year 
after  year.  As  with  everything  else,  since  I  began  to 
love  it  I  find  it  gradually  growing  beautiful.  Dream- 
thorp  —  a  castle,  a  chapel,  a  lake,  a  straggling  strip  of 
gray  houses,  with  a  blue  film  of  smoke  over  all  —  lies 
embosomed  in  emerald.  Summer,  with  its  daisies,  runs 
up  to  every  cottage  door.  From  the  little  height  where 


LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

I  am  now  sitting,  I  see  it  beneath  me.  Nothing  could 
be  more  peaceful.  The  wind  and  the  birds  fly  over  it. 
A  passing  sunbeam  makes  brilliant  a  white  gable-end, 
and  brings  out  the  colors  of  the  blossomed  apple-tree 
beyond,  and  disappears.  I  see  figures  in  the  street,  but 
hear  them  not.  The  hands  on  the  church  clock  seem 
always  pointing  to  one  hour.  Time  has  fallen  asleep  in 
the  afternoon  sunshine.  I  make  a  frame  of  my  fingers, 
and  look  at  my  picture.  On  the  walls  of  the  next  Acade- 
my's Exhibition  will  hang  nothing  half  so  beautiful ! 

My  village  is,  I  think,  a  special  favorite  of  Summer. 
Every  window-sill  in  it  she  touches  with  color  and  fra- 
grance ;  everywhere  she  wakens  the  drowsy  murmurs  of 
the  hives ;  every  place  she  scents  with  apple-blossom. 
Traces  of  her  hand  are  to  be  seen  on  the  weir  beside"  the 
ruined  mill ;  and  even  the  canal,  along  which  the  barges 
come  and  go,  has  a  great  white  water-lily  asleep  on  its 
olive-colored  face.  Never  was  velvet  on  a  monarch's 
robe  so  gorgeous  as  the  green  mosses  that  be-ruff  the 
roofs  of  farm  and  cottage,  M'hen  the  sunbeam  slants  on 
them  and  goes.  The  old  road  out  towards  the  common, 
and  the  hoary  dikes  that  might  have  been  built  in  the 
reign  of  Alfred,  have  not  been  forgotten  by  the  generous 
adorning  season ;  for  every  fissure  has  its  mossy  cushion, 
and  the  old  blocks  themselves  are  washed  by  the  loveliest 
gray-green  lichens  in  the  world,  and  the  large  loose 
stones  lyiiig  on  the  ground  have  gathered  to  themselves 
the  peacefulest  mossy  coverings.  Some  of  these  have 
not  been  disturbed  for  a  century.  Summer  has  adorned 
my  village  as  gayly,  and  taken  as  much  pleasure  in  the 
task,  as  the  people  of  old,  when  Elizabeth  was  queen, 


DREAMTHORP.  113 

took  in  the  adornment  of  the  May -pole  against  a  summer 
festival.  And,  just  think,  not  only  Dreamtliorp,  but 
every  English  village  she  has  made  beautiful  after  one 
fashion  or  another,  —  making  vivid  green  the  hill-slope 
on  which  straggling  white  Welsh  hamlets  hang  right  op- 
posite the  sea ;  drowning  in  apple-blossom  the  red  Sus- 
sex ones  in  the  fat  valley.  And  think,  once  more,  every 
spear  of  grass  in  England  she  has  touched  with  a  livelier 
green  ;  the  crest  of  every  bird  she  has  burnished  ;  every 
old  wall  between  the  four  seas  has  received  her  mossy 
and  licheny  attentions ;  every  nook  in  every  forest  she 
has  sown  with  pale  flowers,  every  marsh  she  has  dashed 
with  the  fires  of  the  marigold.  And  in  the  wonderful 
night  the  moon  knows,  she  hangs  — •  the  planet  on  which 
so  many  millions  of  us  fight,  and  sin,  and  agonize,  and 
die  —  a  sphere  of  glow-worm  light. 

Having  discoursed  so  long  about  Dreamthorp,  it  is 
but  fair  that  I  should  now  introduce  you  to  her  lions. 
These  are,  for  the  most  part,  of  a  commonplace  kind; 
and  I  am  afraid  that,  if  you  wish  to  find  romance  in 
them,  you  must  bring  it  with  you.  I  might  speak  of  the 
old  church-tower,  or  of  the  churchyard  beneath  it,  in 
which  the  village  holds  its  dead,  each  resting-place 
marked  by  a  simple  stone,  on  which  is  inscribed  the 
name  and  age  of  the  sleeper,  and  a  Scripture  text  be- 
neath, in  which  live  our  hopes  of  immortality.  But,  on 
the  whole,  perhaps  it  will  be  better  to  begin  with  the 
canal,  which  wears  on  its  olive-colored  face  the  big  white 
water-lily  already  chronicled.  Such  a  secluded  place  is 
Dreamthorp  that  the  railway  does  not  come  near,  and 
the  canal  is  the  only  thing  that  connects  it  with  the 

H 


114  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

world.  It  stands  high,  and  from  it  the  undulating  coun- 
try may  be  seen  stretching  away  into  the  gray  of  dis- 
tance, -with  lulls  and  woods,  and  stains  of  smoke  which 
mark  the  sites  of  villages.  Every  now  and  then  a  horse 
comes  staggering  along  the  towing-path,  trailing  a  sleepy 
barge  filled  with  merchandise.  A  quiet,  indolent  life 
these  bargemen  lead  in  the  summer  days.  One  lies 
stretched  at  his  length  on  the  sun-heated  plank ;  his 
comrade  sits  smoking  in  the  little  dog-hutch,  which  I 
suppose  he  calls  a  cabin.  Silently  they  come  and  go; 
silently  the  wooden  bridge  lifts  to  let  them  through. 
The  horse  stops  at  the  bridge-house  for  a  drink,  and 
there  I  like  to  talk  a  little  with  the  men.  They  serve  in- 
stead of  a  newspaper,  and  retail  with  great  willingness 
the  news  they  have  picked  up  in  their  progress  from 
town  to  town.  I  am  told  they  sometimes  marvel  who 
the  old  gentleman  is  who  accosts  them  from  beneath  a 
huge  umbrella  in  the  sun,  and  that  they  think  him  either 
verv  wise  or  very  foolish.  Not  in  the  least  unnatural! 
We  are  great  friends,  I  believe,  —  evidence  of  which 
they  occasionally  exhibit  by  requesting  me  to  disburse  a 
trifle  for  drink -money.  This  canal  is  a  great  haunt  of 
mine  of  an  evening.  The  water  hardly  invites  one  to 
bathe  in  it,  and  a  delicate  stomach  might  suspect  the 
flavor  of  the  eels  caught  therein  ;  yet,  to  my  thinking,  it 
is  not  in  the  least  destitute  of  beauty.  A  barge  trailing 
up  through  it  in  the  sunset  is  a  pretty  sight;  and  the 
heavenly  crimsons  and  purples  sleep  quite  lovingly  upon 
its  glossy  ripples.  Nor  does  the  evening  star  disdain  it, 
for  as  I  walk  along  I  see  it  mirrored  therein  as  clearly 
as  in  the  waters  of  the  Mediterranean  itself. 


DEEAMTHOEP.  115 

The  old  castle  and  chapel  already  alluded  to  are,  per- 
haps, to  a  stranger,  the  points  of  attraction  in  Dream- 
thorp.     Back  from  the  houses  is  the  lake,  on  the  green 
sloping  hanks  of  which,  with  broken  windows  and  tombs, 
the  ruins  stand.    As  it  is  noon,  and  the  weather  is  warm, 
let  us  go  and  sit  on  a  turret.     Here,  on  these  very  steps, 
as  old  ballads  tell,  a  queen  sat  once,  day  after  day,  look- 
ing southward  for  the  light  of  returning  spears.     I  be- 
think me  that  yesterday,  no  further  gone,  I  went  to  visit 
a  consumptive  shoemaker;  seated  here  I  can  single  out 
his  very  house,  nay,  the  very  window  of  the  room  in 
which  he  is  lying.     On  that  straw  roof  might  the  raven 
alight,  and  flap  his  sable  wings.     There,  at  this  moment, 
is  the   supreme  tragedy  being  enacted.     A  woman  is 
weeping  there,  and  little  children  are  looking  on  with  a 
sore  bewilderment.    Before  nightfall  the  poor  peaked 
face  of  the  bowed  artisan  will  have  gathered  its  ineffable 
peace,  and  the  widow  will  be  led  away  from  the  bedside 
by  the  tenderness  of  neighbors,  and  the  cries  of  the  or- 
phan brood  will  be  stilled.     And  yet  this  present  indubi- 
table suffering  and  loss  does  not  touch  me  like  the  sor- 
row of  the  woman  of  the  ballad,  the  phantom  probably  of 
a  minstrel's  brain.     The  shoemaker  will  be  forgotten,  - 
I  shall  be  forgotten ;  and  long  after  visitors  will  sit  here 
and  look  out  on  the  landscape  and  murmur  the  simple 
lines.     But  why  do  death  and  dying  obtrude  themselves 
at  the  present  moment?     On  the  turret  opposite,  about 
the  distance  of  a  gun-shot,  is  as  pretty  a  sight  as  eye 
could  wish  to  see.     Two  young  people,  strangers  appar- 
ently, have  come  to  visit  the  ruin.     Neither  the  ballad 
queen,  nor  the  shoemaker  down  yonder,  whose  respira- 


116  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

tions  are  getting  shorter  and  shorter,  touches  them  in  the 
least.  They  are  merry  and  happy,  and  the  graybeard 
turret  has  not  the  heart  to  thrust  a  foolish  moral  upon 
them.  They  would  not  thank  him  if  he  did,  I  dare  say. 
Perhaps  they  could  not  understand  him.  Time  enough  ! 
Twenty  years  hence  they  will  be  able  to  sit  down  at  his 
feet,  and  count  griefs  with  him,  and  tell  him  tale  for  tale. 
Human  hearts  get  ruinous  in  so  much  less  time  than 
stone  walls  and  towers.  See,  the  young  man  has  thrown 
himself  down  at  the  girl's  feet  on  a  little  space  of  grass. 
In  her  scarlet  cloak  she  looks  like  a  blossom  springing 
out  of  a  crevice  on  the  ruined  steps.  He  gives  her  a 
flower,  and  she  bows  her  face  down  over  it  almost  to  her 
knees.  What  did  the  flower  say  ?  Is  it  to  hide  a  blush  ? 
He  looks  delighted ;  and  I  almost  fancy  I  see  a  proud 
color  on  his  brow.  As  I  gaze,  these  young  people  make 
for  me  a  perfect  idyl.  The  generous,  ungrudging  sun, 
the  melancholy  ruin,  decked,  like  mad  Lear,  with  the 
flowers  and  ivies  of  forgetfulness  and  grief,  and  between 
them,  sweet  and  evanescent,  human  truth  and  love  ! 

Love !  —  does  it  yet  walk  the  world,  or  is  it  impris- 
oned in  poems  and  romances  ?  Has  not  the  circulating 
library  become  the  sole  home  of  the  passion  ?  Is  love 
not  become  the  exclusive  property  of  novelists  and  play- 
wrights, to  be  used  by  them  only  for  professional  pur- 
poses ?  Surely,  if  the  men  I  see  are  lovers,  or  ever  have 
been  lovers,  they  would  be  nobler  than  they  are.  The 
knowledge  that  he  is  beloved  should,  must  make  a  man 
tender,  gentle,  upright,  pure.  While  yet  a  youngster 
in  a  jacket,  I  can  remember  falling  desperately  in  love 
with  a  young  lady  several  years  my  senior,  —  after  the 


DEEAMTHORP.  117 

fashion  of  youngsters  in  jackets.  Could  I  have  fibbed 
in  these  days?  Could  I  have  betrayed  a  comrade? 
Could  I  have  stolen  eggs  or  callow  young  from  the  nest  ? 
Could  I  have  stood  quietly  by  and  seen  the  weak  or  the 
maimed  bullied  ?  Nay,  verily  !  In  these  absurd  days 
she  lighted  up  the  whole  world  for  me.  To  sit  in  the 
same  room  with  her  was  like  the  happiness  of  perpetual 
holiday ;  when  she  asked  me  to  run  a  message  for  her, 
or  to  do  any,  the  slightest,  service  for  her,  I  felt  as  if 
a  patent  of  nobility  were  conferred  on  me.  I  kept  my 
passion  to  myself,  like  a  cake,  and  nibbled  it  in  private. 
Juliet  was  several  years  my  senior,  and  had  a  lover,  — 
was,  in  point  of  fact,  actually  engaged ;  and,  in  looking 
back,  I  can  remember,  I  was  too  much  in  love  to  feel  the 
slightest  twinge  of  jealousy.  I  remember  also  seeing 
Romeo  for  the  first  time,  and  thinking  him  a  greater  man 
than  Caesar  or  Napoleon.  The  worth  I  credited  him 
with,  the  cleverness,  the  goodness,  the  everything !  He 
awed  me  by  his  manner  and  bearing.  He  accepted  that 
girl's  love  coolly  and  as  a  matter  of  course ;  it  put  him  no 
more  about  than  a  crown  and  sceptre  puts  about  a  king. 
What  I  would  have  given  my  life  to  possess,  —  being 
only  fourteen,  it  was  not  much  to  part  with,  after  all,  — 
he  wore  lightly,  as  he  wore  his  gloves  or  his  cane.  It 
did  not  seem  a  bit  too  good  for  him.  His  self-possession 
appalled  me.  If  I  had  seen  him  take  the  sun  out  of  the 
sky,  and  put  it  into  his  breeches-pocket,  I  don't  think  I 
should  have  been  in  the  least  degree  surprised.  Well, 
years  after,  when  I  had  discarded  my  passion  with  my 
jacket,  I  have  assisted  this  middle-aged  Romeo  home 
from  a  roystering  wine-party,  and  heard  him  hiccup  out 


118  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

his  marital  annoyances,  "with  the  strangest  remembrances 
of  old  times,  and  the  strangest  deductions  therefrom. 
Did  that  man  with  the  idiotic  laugh  and  the  blurred 
utterance  ever  love  ?  Was  he  ever  capable  of  loving  ? 
I  protest  I  have  my  doubts.  But  where  are  my  young 
people  ?  Gone !  So  it  is  always.  We  begin  to  moralize 
and  look  wise,  and  Beauty,  who  is  something  of  a  co- 
quette, and  of  an  exacting  turn  of  mind,  and  likes  atten- 
tions, gets  disgusted  with  our  wisdom  or  our  stupidity, 
and  goes  off  in  a  huff.  Let  the  baggage  go ! 

The  ruined  chapel  adjoins  the  ruined  castle  on  which  I 
am  now  sitting,  and  is  evidently  a  building  of  much  older 
date.  It  is  a  mere  shell  now.  It  is  quite  roofless,  ivy 
covers  it  in  part ;  the  stone  tracery  of  the  great  western 
window  is  yet  intact,  but  the  colored  glass  is  gone,  with 
the  splendid  vestments  of  the  abbot,  the  fuming  incense, 
the  chanting  choirs,  and  the  patient,  sad-eyed  monks, 
who  muttered  Aves,  shrived  guilt,  and  illuminated  missals. 
Time  was  when  this  place  breathed  actual  benedictions, 
and  was  a  home  of  active  peace.  At  present  it  is  visited 
only  by  the  stranger,  and  delights  but  the  antiquary. 
The  village  people  have  so  little  respect  for  it,  that  they 
do  not  even  consider  it  haunted.  There  are  several 
tombs  in  the  interior  bearing  knights'  escutcheons,  which 
time  has  sadly  defaced.  The  dust  you  stand  upon  is 
noble.  Earls  have  been  brought  here  in  dinted  mail 
from  battle,  and  earls'  wives  from  the  pangs  of  child- 
bearing.  The  last  trumpet  will  break  the  slumber  of 
a  right  honorable  company.  One  of  the  tombs  —  the 
most  perfect  of  all  in  want  of  preservation  —  I  look  at 
often,  and  try  to  conjecture  what  it  commemorates 


DEEAMTHORP.  119 

With  all  my  fancies,  I  can  get  no  further  than  the  old 
story  of  love  and  death.  There,  on  the  slab,  the  white 
figures  sleep  ;  marble  hands,  folded  in  prayer,  on  marble 
breasts.  And  I  like  to  think  that  he  was  brave,  she 
beautiful ;  that  although  the  monument  is  worn  by  time, 
and  sullied  by  the  stains  of  the  weather,  the  qualities 
which  it  commemorates  —  husbandly  and  wifely  affec- 
tion, courtesy,  courage,  knightly  scorn  of  wrong  and 
falsehood,  meekness,  penitence,  charity  —  are  existing 
yet  somewhere,  recognizable  by  each  other.  The  man 
who  in  this  world  can  keep  the  whiteness  of  his  soul  is 
not  likely  to  lose  it  in  any  other. 

In  summer  I  spend  a  good  deal  of  time  floating  about 
the  lake.  The  landing-place  to  which  my  boat  is  teth- 
ered is  ruinous,  like  the  chapel  and  palace,  and  my  em- 
barkation causes  quite  a  stir  in  the  sleepy  little  village. 
Small  boys  leave  their  games  and  mud-pies,  and  gather 
round  in  silence  ;  they  have  seen  me  get  off  a  hundred 
times,  but  their  interest  in  the  matter  seems  always  new. 
Not  unfrequently  an  idle  cobbler,  in  red  nightcap  and 
leathern  apron,  leans  on  a  broken  stile,  and  honors  my 
proceedings  with  his  attention.  I  shoot  off,  and  the  hu- 
man knot  dissolves.  The  lake  contains  three  islands, 
each  with  a  solitary  tree,  and  on  these  islands  the  swans 
breed.  I  feed  the  birds  daily  with  bits  of  bread.  See, 
one  comes  gliding  towards  me,  with  superbly  arched  neck, 
to  receive  its  customary  alms  !  How  wildly  beautiful  its 
motions  !  How  haughtily  it  begs  !  The  green  pasture 
lands  run  down  to  the  edge  of  the  water,  and  into  it 
in  the  afternoons  the  red  kine  wade  and  stand  knee- 
deep  in  their  shadows,  surrounded  by  troops  of  flies. 


120  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

Patiently  the  honest  creatures  abide  the  attacks  of  their 
tormentors.  Now  one  swishes  itself  with  its  tail,  — now 
its  neighbor  flaps  a  huge  ear.  I  draw  my  oars  alongside, 
and  let  my  boat  float  at  its  own  will.  The  soft  blue 
heavenly  abysses,  the  wandering  streams  of  vapor,  the 
long  beaches  of  rippled  cloud,  are  glassed  and  repeated 
in  the  lake.  Dreamthorp  is  silent  as  a  picture,  the 
voices  of  the  children  are  mute  ;  and  the  smoke  from  the 
houses,  the  blue  pillars  all  sloping  in  one  angle,  float 
upward  as  if  in  sleep.  Grave  and  stern  the  old  castle 
rises  from  its  emerald  banks,  which  long  ago  came  down 
to  the  lake  in  ten-ace  on  terrace,  gay  with  fruits  and  flow- 
ers, and  with  stone  nymph  and  satyrs  hid  in  every  nook. 
Silent  and  empty  enough  to-day  !  A  flock  of  daws  sud- 
denly bursts  out  from  a  turret,  and  round  and  round  they 
wheel,  as  if  in  panic.  Has  some  great  scandal  exploded  ? 
Has  a  conspiracy  been  discovered  ?  Has  a  revolution 
broken  out  ?  The  excitement  has  subsided,  and  one  of 
them,  perched  on  the  old  banner-staff,  chatters  confiden- 
tially to  himself  as  he,  sidewise,  eyes  the  world  beneath 
him.  Floating  about  thus,  time  passes  swiftly,  for,  be- 
fore I  know  where  I  am,  the  kine  have  withdrawn  from 
the  lake  to  couch  on  the  herbage,  while  one  on  a  little 
height  is  lowing  for  the  milkmaid  and  her  pails.  Along 
the  road  I  see  the  laborers  coming  home  for  supper, 
while  the  sun  setting  behind  me  makes  the  village  win- 
dows blaze ;  and  so  I  take  out  my  oars,  and  pull  leisurely 
through  waters  faintly  flushed  with  evening  colors. 

I  do  not  think  that  Mr.  Buckle  could  have  written  his 
"History  of  Civilization"  in  Dreamthorp,  because  in 
it  books,  conversation,  and  the  other  appurtenances  of 


DREAMTHORP.  121 

intellectual  life,  are  not  to  be  procured.  I  am  acquainted 
with  birds,  and  the  building  of  nests,  —  with  wild-flowers, 
and  the  seasons  in  which  they  blow,  —  but  with  the  big 
world  far  away,  with  what  men  and  women  are  thinking, 
and  doing,  and  saying,  I  am  acquainted  only  through  the 
Times,  and  the  occasional  magazine  or  review,  sent  by 
friends  whom  I  have  not  looked  upon  for  years,  but  by 
whom,  it  seems,  I  am  not  yet  forgotten.  The  village 
has  but  few  intellectual  wants,  and  the  intellectual  sup- 
ply is  strictly  measured  by  the  demand.  Still  there  ia 
something.  Down  in  the  village,  and  opposite  the  curi- 
ously carved  fountain,  is  a  school-room  which  can  accom- 
modate a  couple  of  hundred  people  on  a  pinch.  There 
are  our  public  meetings  held.  Musical  entertainments 
have  been  given  there  by  a  single  performer.  In  that 
school-room  last  winter  an  American  biologist  terrified  the 
villagers,  and,  to  their  simple  understandings,  mingled 
up  the  next  world  with  this.  Now  and  again  some  rare 
bird  of  an  itinerant  lecturer  covers  dead  walls  with  post- 
ers, yellow  and  blue,  and  to  that  school-room  we  flock  to 
hear  him.  His  rounded  periods  the  eloquent  gentleman 
devolves  amidst  a  respectful  silence.  His  audience  do 
not  understand  him,  but  they  see  that  the  clergyman 
does,  and  the  doctor  does  ;  and  so  they  are  content,  and 
look  as  attentive  and  wise  as  possible.  Then,  in  connec- 
tion with  the  school-room,  there  is  a  public  library,  where 
books  are  exchanged  once  a  month.  This  library  is  a 
kind  of  Greenwich  Hospital  for  disabled  novels  and  ro- 
mances. Each  of  these  books  has  been  in  the  wars ; 
some  are  unquestionable  antiques.  The  tears  of  three 
generations  have  fallen  upon  their  dusky  pages.  The 

VOL.   IV  6 


122  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

heroes  and  the  heroines  are  of  another  age  than  ours. 
Sir  Charles  Grandison  is  standing  with  his  hat  under 
his  arm.  Tom  Jones  plops  from  the  tree  into  the  water, 
to  the  infinite  distress  of  Sophia.  Moses  comes  home 
from  market  with  his  stock  of  shagreen  spectacles.  Lov- 
ers, warriors,  and  villains  —  as  dead  to  the  present  gen- 
eration of  readers  as  Cambyses  —  are  weeping,  fight- 
ing, and  intriguing.  These  books,  tattered  and  torn  as 
they  are,  are  read  with  delight  to-day.  The  viands  are 
celestial,  if  set  forth  on  a  dingy  table-cloth.  The  gaps 
and  chasms  which  occur  in  pathetic  or  perilous  chapters 
are  felt  to  be  personal  calamities.  It  is  with  a  certain 
feeling  of  tenderness  that  I  look  upon  these  books  :  I 
think  of  the  dead  fingers  that  have  turned  over  the 
leaves,  of  the  dead  eyes  that  have  travelled  along  the 
lines.  An  old  novel  has  a  history  of  its  own.  When 
fresh  and  new,  and  before  it  had  breathed  its  secret,  it 
lay  on  my  lady's  table.  She  killed  the  weary  day  with 
it,  and  when  night  came  it  was  placed  beneath  her  pil- 
low. At  the  seaside  a  couple  of  foolish  heads  have  bent 
over  it,  hands  have  touched  and  tingled,  and  it  has  heard 
vows  and  protestations  as  passionate  as  any  its  pages 
contained.  Coming  down  in  the  world,  Cinderella  in 
the  kitchen  has  blubbered  over  it  by  the  light  of  a  sur- 
reptitious caudle,  conceiving  herself  the  while  the  mag- 
nificent Georgiana,  and  Lord  Mordaunt,  Georgiana's 
lover,  the  pot-boy  round  the  corner.  Tied  up  with  many 
a  dingy  brother,  the  auctioneer  knocks  the  bundle  down 
to  the  bidder  of  a  few  pence,  and  it  finds  its  way  to  the 
quiet  cove  of  some  village  library,  where  with  some  diffi- 
culty —  as  if  from  want  of  teeth  —  and  with  numerous 


DEEAMTHOEP.  123 

interruptions  —  as  if  from  lack  of  memory  —  it  tells  its 
old  stories,  and  wakes  tears  and  blushes  and  laughter  as 
of  yore.  Thus  it  spends  its  age,  and  in  a  few  years  it 
will  become  unintelligible,  and  then,  in  the  dust-bin,  like 
poor  human  mortals  in  the  grave,  it  will  rest  from  all  its 
labors.  It  is  impossible  to  estimate  the  benefit  which 
such  books  have  conferred.  How  often  have  they 
loosed  the  chain  of  circumstance !  What  unfamiliar 
tears,  what  unfamiliar  laughter,  they  have  caused ! 
What  chivalry  and  tenderness  they  have  infused  into 
rustic  loves !  Of  what  weary  hours  they  have  cheated 
and  beguiled  their  readers  !  The  big,  solemn  history- 
books  are  in  excellent  preservation  ;  the  story-books  are 
defaced  and  frayed,  and  their  out-of-elbows  condition  is 
their  pride  and  the  best  justification  of  their  existence. 
They  are  tashed,  as  roses  are,  by  being  eagerly  handled 
and  smelt.  I  observe,  too,  that  the  most  ancient  ro- 
mances are  not  in  every  case  the  most  severely  worn. 
It  is  the  pace  that  tells  in  horses,  men,  and  books.  There 
are  Nestors  wonderfully  hale ;  there  are  juveniles  in  a 
state  of  dilapidation.  One  of  the  youngest  books,  "  The 
Old  Curiosity  Shop,"  is  absolutely  falling  to  pieces. 
That  book,  like  Italy,  is  possessor  of  the  fatal  gift ;  but 
happily,  in  its  case,  everything  can  be  rectified  by  a  new 
edition.  We  have  buried  warriors  and  poets,  princes  and 
queens,  but  no  one  of  these  was  followed  to  the  grave 
by  sincerer  mourners  than  was  little  Nell. 

Besides  the  itinerant  lecturer,  and  the  permanent 
library,  we  have  the  Sunday  sermon.  These  sum  up  the 
intellectual  aids  and  furtherances  of  the  whole  place. 
We  have  a  church  and  a  chapel,  and  I  attend  both. 


124  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

The  Dreamthorp  people  are  Dissenters,  for  the  most 
part;  why,  I  never  could  understand;  because  dissent 
implies  a  certain  intellectual  effort.  But  Dissenters  they 
are,  and  Dissenters  they  are  likely  to  remain.  In  an  un- 
gainly building,  filled  with  hard,  gaunt  pews,  without  an 
organ,  without  a  touch  of  color  in  the  windows,  with 
nothing  to  stir  the  imagination  or  the  devotional  sense, 
the  simple  people  worship.  On  Sunday  they  are  put 
upon  a  diet  of  spiritual  bread-and-water.  Personally,  I 
should  desire  more  generous  food.  But  the  laboring 
people  listen  attentively,  till  once  they  fall  asleep,  and 
they  wake  up  to  receive  the  benediction  with  a  feeling  of 
having  done  their  duty.  They  know  they  ought  to  go  to 
chapel,  and  they  go.  I  go  likewise,  from  habit,  although 
I  have  long  ago  lost  the  power  of  following  a  discourse. 
In  my  pew,  and  whilst  the  clergyman  is  going  on,  I 
think  of  the  strangest  things,  —  of  the  tree  at  the  win- 
dow, of  the  congregation  of  the  dead  outside,  of  the 
wheat-fields  and  the  corn-fields  beyond  and  all  around. 
And  the  odd  thing  is,  that  it  is  during  sermon  only  that 
my  mind  flies  off  at  a  tangent  and  busies  itself  with 
things  removed  from  the  place  and  the  circumstances. 
Whenever  it  is  finished,  fancy  returns  from  her  wander- 
ings, and  I  am  alive  to  the  objects  around  me.  The 
clergyman  knows  my  humor,  and  is  good  Christian 
enough  to  forgive  me ;  and  he  smiles  good-huinoredly 
when  I  ask  him  to  let  me  have  the  chapel  keys,  that  I 
may  enter,  when  in  the  mood,  and  preach  a  sermon  to 
myself.  To  my  mind,  an  empty  chapel  is  impressive ; 
a  crowded  one,  comparatively  a  commonplace  affair. 
Alone,  I  could  choose  my  own  text,  and  my  silent 


DKEAMTHORP.  125 

discourse  would  not  be  without  its  practical  applica- 
tions. 

An  idle  life  I  live  in  this  place,  as  the  world  counts  it ; 
but  then  I  have  the  satisfaction  of  differing  from  the 
world  as  to  the  meaning  of  idleness.  A  windmill  twirl- 
ing its  arms  all  day  is  admirable  only  when  there  is  corn 
to  grind.  Twirling  its  arms  for  the  mere  barren  pleas- 
ure of  twirling  them,  or  for  the  sake  of  looking  busy, 
does  not  deserve  any  rapturous  paean  of  praise.  I  must 
be  made  happy  after  my  own  fashion,  not  after  the 
fashion  of  other  people.  Here  I  can  live  as  I  please ; 
here  I  can  throw  the  reins  on  the  neck  of  my  whim. 
Here  I  play  with  my  own  thoughts;  here  I  ripen  for 
the  grave. 


A   BACHELOR'S    REVERT. 

BY   DONALD    G.    MITCHELL. 

HAVE  got  a  quiet  farm-house  in  the  country,  a 
very  humble  place,  to  be  sure,  tenanted  by  a 
•worthy  enough  man,  of  the  old  New  England 
stamp,  where  I  sometimes  go  for  a  day  or  two  in  the 
winter,  to  look  over  the  farm-accounts,  and  to  see  how 
the  stock  is  thriving  on  the  winter's  keep. 

One  side  the  door,  as  you  enter  from  the  porch,  is  a 
little  parlor,  scarce  twelve  feet  by  ten,  with  a  cosey -looking 
fireplace,  a  heavy  oak  floor,  a  couple  of  arm-chairs,  and 
a  brown  table  with  carved  lion's  feet.  Out  of  this  room 
opens  a  little  cabinet,  only  big  enough  for  a  broad 
bachelor  bedstead,  where  I  sleep  upon  feathers,  and 
wake  in  the  morning,  with  my  eye  upon  a  saucy  colored 
lithographic  print  of  some  fancy  "  Bessy." 

It  happens  to  be  the  only  house  in  the  world  of  which 
I  am  bonafide  owner ;  and  I  take  a  vast  deal  of  comfort 
in  treating  it  just  as  I  choose.  I  manage  to  break  some 
article  of  furniture  almost  every  time  I  pay  it  a  visit ; 
and  if  I  cannot  open  the  window  readily  of  a  morning,  to 
breathe  the  fresh  air,  I  knock  out  a  pane  or  two  of  glass 


127 

with  my  boot.  I  lean  against  the  walls  in  a  very  old 
arm-chair  there  is  on  the  premises,  and  scarce  ever  fail 
to  worry  such  a  hole  in  the  plastering  as  would  set  me 
down  for  a  round  charge  for  damages  in  town,  or  make  a 
prim  housewife  fret  herself  into  a  raging  fever.  I  laugh 
out  loud  with  myself,  in  my  big  arm-chair,  when  I  think 
that  I  am  neither  afraid  of  one  nor  the  other. 

As  for  the  fire,  I  keep  the  little  hearth  so  hot  as  to 
warm  half  the  cellar  below,  and  the  whole  space  between 
the  jambs  roars  for  hours  together  with  white  flame. 
To  be  sure,  the  windows  are  not  very  tight,  between 
broken  panes  and  bad  joints,  so  that  the  fire,  large  as  it 
is,  is  by  no  means  an  extravagant  comfort. 

As  night  approaches,  I  have  a  huge  pile  of  oak  and 
hickory  placed  beside  the  hearth ;  I  put  out  the  tallow 
candle  on  the  mantel  (using  the  family  snuffers,  with  one 
leg  broke),  then,  drawing  my  chair  directly  in  front  of 
the  blazing  wood,  and  setting  one  foot  on  each  of  the  old 
iron  fire-dogs  (until  they  grow  too  warm),  I  dispose  my- 
self for  an  evening  of  such  sober  and  thoughtful  quie- 
tude as  I  believe,  on  my  soul,  that  very  few  of  my  fellow- 
men  have  the  good  fortune  to  enjoy. 

My  tenant  meantime,  in  the  other  room,  I  can  hear 
now  and  then  —  though  there  is  a  thick  stone  chimney 
and  a  broad  entry  between  —  multiplying  contrivances 
with  his  wife  to  put  two  babies  to  sleep.  This  occupies 
them,  I  should  say,  usually  an  hour;  though  my  only 
measure  of  time  (for  I  never  carry  a  watch  into  the 
country)  is  the  blaze  of  my  fire.  By  ten  or  thereabouts 
my  stock  of  wood  is  nearly  exhausted ;  I  pile  upon  the 
hot  coals  what  remains,  and  sit  watching  how  it  kindles, 


128  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

and  blazes,  and  goes  out,  —  even  like  our  joys  !  —  and 
then  slip  by  the  light  of  the  embers  into  my  bed,  \vhere 
I  luxuriate  in  such  sound  and  healthful  slumber  as  only 
such  rattling  window-frames  and  country  air  can  supply. 

But  to  return :  the  other  evening,  —  it  happened  to  be 
on  my  last  visit  to  my  farm-house,  —  when  I  had  exhaust- 
ed all  the  ordinary  rural  topics  of  thought,  had  formed 
all  sorts  of  conjectures  as  to  the  income  of  the  year, 
had  planned  a  new  wall  around  one  lot,  and  the  clearing 
up  of  another,  now  covered  with  patriarchal  wood,  and 
wondered  if  the  little  rickety  house  would  not  be,  after 
all,  a  snug  enough  box  to  live  and  die  in,  I  fell  on  a 
sudden  into  such  an  unprecedented  line  of  thought,  which 
took  such  deep  hold  of  my  sympathies,  —  sometimes  even 
starting  tears,  —  that  I  determined,  the  next  day,  to  set 
as  much  of  it  as  I  could  recall  on  paper. 

Something  —  it  may  have  been  the  home -looking  blaze 
(I  am  a  bachelor  of  —  say  six-aud-twenty),  or  possibly  a 
plaintive  cry  of  the  baby  in  my  tenant's  room  —  had  sug- 
gested to  me  the  thought  of  —  Marriage. 

I  piled  upon  the  heated  fire-dogs  the  last  armful  of 
my  wood ;  and  now,  said  I,  bracing  myself  courageously 
between  the  arms  of  my  chair,  I  '11  not  flinch ;  I  '11  pursue 
the  thought  wherever  it  leads,  though  it  lead  me  to  the 

d (I  am  apt  to  be  hasty)  —  at  least  —  continued  I, 

softening  —  until  my  fire  is  out. 

The  wood  was  green,  and  at  first  showed  no  disposition 
to  blaze.  It  smoked  furiously.  Smoke,  thought  I, 
always  goes  before  blaze ;  and  so  does  doubt  go  before 
decision :  and  my  Revery,  from  that  very  starting-point, 
slipped  into  this  shape. 


EEVEEY.  129 

I 

SMOKE,  — SIGNIFYING   DOUBT, 

A  WIFE  ?  thought  I ;  yes,  a  wife  ! 

And  why? 

And  pray,  my  dear  sir,  why  not  —  why?  Why  not 
doubt  ?  why  not  hesitate  ?  why  not  tremble  ? 

Does  a  man  buy  a  ticket  in  a  lottery,  —  a  poor  man, 
whose  whole  earnings  go  in  to  secure  the  ticket,  —  with- 
out trembling,  hesitating,  and  doubting  ? 

Can  a  man  stake  his  bachelor  respectability,  his  inde- 
pendence and  comfort,  upon  the  die  of  absorbing,  un- 
changing, relentless  marriage,  without  trembling  at  the 
venture  ? 

Shall  a  man  who  has  been  free  to  chase  his  fancies 
over  the  wide  world,  without  let  or  hindrance,  shut  him- 
self up  to  marriage-ship,  within  four  walls  called  Home, 
that  are  to  claim  him,  his  time,  his  trouble,  and  his 
tears,  thenceforward  forevermore,  without  doubts  thick 
and  thick-coming  as  Smoke  ? 

Shall  he  who  has  been  hitherto  a  mere  observer  of 
other  men's  cares  and  business, — moving  off  where 
they  made  him  sick  of  heart,  approaching  whenever  and 
wherever  they  made  him  gleeful,  —  shall  he  now  undertake 
administration  of  just  such  cares  and  business,  without 
qualms?  Shall  he  whose  whole  life  has  been  but  a 
nimble  succession  of  escapes  from  trifling  difficulties  now 
broach  without  doubtings  —  that  Matrimony,  where,  if 
difficulty  beset  him,  there  is  no  escape  ?  Shall  this  brain 
of  mine,  careless-working,  never  tired  with  idleness, 
6*  I 


130  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

feeding  on  long  vagaries,  and  high,  gigantic  castles, 
dreaming  out  beatitudes  hour  by  hour,  turn  itself  at 
length  to  such  dull  taskwork  as  thinking  out  a  livelihood 
for  wife  and  children  ? 

Where  thenceforward  will  be  those  sunny  dreams,  in 
which  I  have  warmed  my  fancies  and  my  heart,  and 
lighted  my  eye  with  crystal  ?  This  very  marriage,  which 
a  brilliant  working  imagination  has  invested  time  and 
again  with  brightness  and -delight,  can  serve  no  longer 
as  a  mine  for  teeming  fancy :  all,  alas,  will  be  gone,  — 
reduced  to  the  dull  standard  of  the  actual !  No  more 
room  for  intrepid  forays  of  imagination,  —  no  more  gor- 
geous realm-making,  —  all  will  be  over  ! 

Why  not,  I  thought,  go  on  dreaming  ? 

Can  any  wife  be  prettier  than  an  after-dinner  fancy, 
idle  and  yet  vivid,  can  paint  for  you  ?  Can  any  children 
make  less  noise  than  the  little  rosy-cheeked  ones  who 
have  no  existence,  except  in  the  omnium  gatherum  of 
your  own  brain  ?  Can  any  housewife  be  more  unex- 
ceptionable than  she  who  goes  sweeping  daintily  the 
cobwebs  that  gather  in  your  dreams  ?  Can  any  domestic 
larder  be  better  stocked  than  the  private  larder  of  your 
head  dozing  on  a  cushioned  chair-back  at  Delmonico's  ? 
Can  any  family  purse  be  better  filled  than  the  exceeding 
plump  one  you  dream  of,  after  reading  such  pleasant 
books  as  Munchausen  or  Typee  ? 

But  if,  after  all,  it  must  be,  —  duty  or  what  not 
making  provocation,  —  what  then  ?  And  I  clapped  my 
feet  hard  against  the  fire-dogs,  and  leaned  back,  and 
turned  my  face  to  the  ceiling,  as  much  as  to  say,  And 
•where  on  earth,  then,  shall  a  poor  devil  look  for  a  wife  : 


131 

Somebody  says,  Lyttleton  or  Shaftesbury  I  think,  that 
"  marriages  would  be  happier  if  they  were  all  arranged 
by  the  Lord  Chancellor."  Unfortunately,  we  have  no 
Lord  Chancellor  to  make  this  commutation  of  our 
misery. 

Shall  a  man  then  scour  the  country  on  a  mule's  back, 
like  Honest  Gil  Bias  of  Santillane;  or  shall  he  make 
application  to  some  such  intervening  providence  as  Ma- 
dame St.  Marc,  who,  as  I  see  by  the  Presse,  manages 
these  matters  to  one's  hand,  for  some  five  per  cent  on 
the  fortunes  of  the  parties  ? 

I  have  trouted  when  the  brook  was  so  low  and  the 
sky  so  hot  that  I  might  as  well  have  thrown  my  fly  upon 
the  turnpike  ;  and  I  have  hunted  hare  at  noon,  and  wood- 
cock in  snow-time,  never  despairing,  scarce  doubting; 
but  for  a  poor  hunter  of  his  kind,  without  traps  or  snares, 
or  any  aid  of  police  or  constabulary,  to  traverse  the  world, 
where  are  swarming,  on  a  moderate  computation,  some 
three  hundred  and  odd  millions  of  unmarried  women,  for 
a  single  capture,  —  irremediable,  unchangeable,  —  and  yet 
a  capture  which  by  strange  metonymy,  not  laid  down  in 
the  books,  is  very  apt  to  turn  captor  into  captive,  and 
make  game  of  hunter,  —  all  this  surely,  surely  may  make 
a  man  shrug  with  doubt ! 

Then,  again,  there  are  the  plaguy  wife's  relations. 
Who  knows  how  many  third,  fourth,  or  fifth  cousins  will 
appear  at  careless  complimentary  intervals,  long  after  you 
had  settled  into  the  placid  belief  that  all  congratulatory 
visits  were  at  an  end?  How  many  twisted-headed 
brothers  will  be  putting  in  their  advice,  as  a  friend  to 


132  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

How  many  maiden  aunts  will  come  to  spend  a  month 
or  two  with  their  "  dear  Peggy,"  and  want  to  know,  every 
tea-time,  "  if  she  is  n't  a  dear  love  of  a  wife  "  ?  Then, 
dear  father-in-law  will  beg  (taking  dear  Peggy's  hand  in 
his)  to  give  a  little  wholesome  counsel ;  and  will  be  very 
sure  to  advise  just  the  contrary  of  what  you  had  deter- 
mined to  undertake.  And  dear  manima-in-law  must  set 
her  nose  into  Peggy's  cupboard,  and  insist  upon  having 
the  key  to  your  own  private  locker  in  the  wainscot. 

Then,  perhaps,  there  is  a  little  bevy  of  dirty-nosed 
nephews  who  come  to  spend  the  holidays,  and  eat  up 
your  East  India  sweetmeats ;  and  who  are  forever  tramp- 
ing over  your  head,  or  raising  the  Old  Harry  below,  while 
you  are  busy  with  your  clients.  Last,  and  worst,  is 
some  fidgety  old  uncle,  forever  too  cold  or  too  hot,  who 
vexes  you  with  his  patronizing  airs,  and  impudently 
kisses  his  little  Peggy! 

—  That  could  be  borne,  however :  for  perhaps  he 
has  promised  his  fortune  to  Peggy.  Peggy,  then,  will  be 
rich  (and  the  thought  made  me  rub  my  shins,  which 
were  now  getting  comfortably  warm  upon  the  fire-dogs). 
Then  she  will  be  forever  talking  of  her  fortune  ;  and 
pleasantly  reminding  you,  on  occasion  of  a  favorite  pur- 
chase, how  lucky  that  she  had  the  means ;  and  drop- 
ping hints  about  economy ;  and  buying  very  extravagant 
Paisleys. 

She  will  annoy  you  by  looking  over  the  stock-list 
at  breakfast-time ;  and  mention  quite  carelessly  to  your 
clients  that  she  is  interested  in  such  or  such  a  specula- 
tion. 

She  will  be  provokingly  silent  when  you  hint  to  a 


133 

tradesman  that  you  have  not  the  money  by  you  for  his 
small  bill ;  in  short,  she  will  tear  the  life  out  of  you, 
making  you  pay  in  righteous  retribution  of  annoyance, 
grief,  vexation,  shame,  and  sickness  of  heart  ior  the 
superlative  folly  of  "  marrying  rich." 

—  But  if  not  rich,  then  poor.  Bah!  the  thought 
made  me  stir  the  coals ;  but  there  was  still  no  blaze. 
The  paltry  earnings  you  are  able  to  wring  out  of  clients 
by  the  sweat  of  your  brow  will  now  be  all  our  income ; 
you  will  be  pestered  for  pin-money,  and  pestered  with 
your  poor  wife's  relations.  Ten  to  one,  she  will  stickle 
about  taste,  —  "  Sir  Visto's,"  —  and  want  to  make  this 
so  pretty,  and  that  so  charming,  if  she  only  had  the 
means ;  and  is  sure  Paul  (a  kiss)  can't  deny  his  little 
Peggy  such  a  trifling  sum,  and  all  for  the  common 
benefit. 

Then  she,  for  one,  means  that  her  children  sha'  n't  go 
a  begging  for  clothes,  —  and  another  pull  at  the  purse. 
Trust  a  poor  mother  to  dress  her  children  in  finery! 

Perhaps  she  is  ugly :  not  noticeable  at  first,  but 
growing  on  her,  and  (what  is  worse)  growing  faster  on 
you.  You  wonder  why  you  did  n't  see  that  vulgar  nose 
long  ago  ;  and  that  lip, — it  is  very  strange,  you  think, 
that  you  ever  thought  it  pretty.  And  then,  to  come 
to  breakfast  with  her  hair  looking  as  it  does,  and  you 
not  so  much  as  daring  to  say,  "  Peggy,  do  brush  your 
hair !  "  Her  foot,  too,  —  not  very  bad  when  decently 
chaussee,  — but  now,  since  she's  married,  she  does  wear 
such  infernal  slippers  !  And  yet,  for  all  this,  to  be  prig- 
ging up  for  an  hour,  when  any  of  my  old  chums  come  to 
dine  with  me ! 


134  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

"Bless  your  kind  hearts!  my  dear  fellows,"  said  I, 
thrusting  the  tongs  into  the  coals,  and  speaking  out  loud, 
as  if  my  voice  could  reach  from  Virginia  to  Paris,  "  not 
married  yet !  " 

Perhaps  Peggy  is  pretty  enough,  —  only  shrewish. 

—  No  matter  for  cold  coffee ;  you  should  have  been 
up  before. 

What  sad,  thin,  poorly  cooked  chops,  to  eat  with  your 
rolls! 

—  She  thinks  they  are  very  good,  and  wonders  how 
you  can  set  such  an  example  to  your  children.  - 

The  butter  is  nauseating. 

—  She  has  no  other,  and  hopes  you  '11  not   raise  a 
storm  about  butter  a  little  turned.      I  think  I  see  myself 
—  ruminated  I  —  sitting  meekly  at  table,  scarce  daring 
to  lift  up  my  eyes,  utterly  fagged  out  with  some  quar- 
rel of  yesterday,  choking  down  detestably  sour  muffins, 
that  my  wife  thinks  are  "  delicious,"    slipping  in  dried 
mouthfuls  of  burnt  ham  off  the  side  of  my  fork -tines, 
slipping  off  my  chair  sidewise  at  the  end,  and  slipping 
out  with  my  hat  between  my  knees,  to  business,  and 
never  feeling  myself  a  competent,  sound-minded  man, 
till  the  oak  door  is  between  me  and  Peggy! 

—  "  Ha,  ha,  — not  yet !  "  said  I ;  and  in  so  earnest  a 
tone,  that  my  dog  started  to  his  feet,  cocked  his  eye  to 
have  a  good  look  into  my  face,  met  my  smile  of  triumph 
with  an  amiable  wag  of  the  tail,  and  curled  up  again  in 
the  corner. 

Again,  Peggy  is  rich  enough,  well  enough,  mild  enough, 
only  she  does  n't  care  a  fig  for  you.  She  has  married  you 
because  father  or  grandfather  thought  the  match  eligible, 


A    BACHELOE/S    REVERY.  135 

and  because  she  did  n't  wish  to  disoblige  them.  Besides, 
she  didn't  positively  hate  you,  and  thought  you  were 
a  respectable  enough  young  person;  she  has  told  you 
so  repeatedly  at  dinner.  She  wonders  you  like  to  read 
poetry;  she  wishes  you  would  buy  her  a  good  cook- 
book; and  insists  upon  your  making  your  will  at  the 
birth  of  the  first  baby. 

She  thinks  Captain  So-aud-So  a  splendid-looking  fel- 
low, and  wishes  you  would  trim  up  a  little,  were  it  only 
for  appearance'  sake. 

You  need  not  hurry  up  from  the  office  so  early  at 
night ;  she,  bless  her  dear  heart !  does  not  feel  lonely. 
You  read  to  her  a  love-tale  ;  she  interrupts  the  pathetic 
parts  with  directions  to  her  seamstress.  You  read  of 
marriages ;  she  sighs,  and  asks  if  Captain  So-and-So  has 
left  town  !  She  hates  to  be  mewed  up  in  a  cottage,  or 
between  brick  walls  ;  she  does  so  love  the  Springs  ! 

But,  again,  Peggy  loves  you;  at  least,  she  swears  it, 
with  her  hand  on  "  The  Sorrows  of  Werther."  She  has 
pin-money  which  she  spends  for  the  "Literary  World"  and 
the  "Friends  in  Council."  She  is  not  bad-looking,  save 
a  bit  too  much  of  forehead ;  nor  is  she  sluttish,  unless 
a  neglige  till  three  o'clock  and  an  ink-stain  on  the  fore- 
finger be  sluttish :  but  then  she  is  such  a  sad  blue  ! 

You  never  fancied,  when  you  saw  her  buried  in  a  three- 
volume  novel,  that  it  was  anything  more  than  a  girlish 
vagary;  and  when  she  quoted  Latin,  you  thought, 
innocently,  that  she  had  a  capital  memory  for  her 
samplers. 

But  to  be  bored  eternally  about  divine  Dante  and 
funny  Goldoni  is  too  bad.  Your  copy  of  Tasso,  a  treas- 


136  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

lire-print  of  16SO,  is  all  bethumbed  and  dog's-eared,  and 
spotted  with  baby-gruel.  Even  your  Seneca  —  an  Elzevir 
—  is  all  sweaty  with  handling.  She  adores  La  Fontaine, 
reads  Balzac  with  a  kind  of  artist -scowl,  and  will  not  let 
Greek  alone. 

You  hint  at  broken  rest  and  an  aching  head  at  break- 
fast, and  she  will  fling  you  a  scrap  of  Anthology,  in 
lieu  of  the  camphor-bottle,  or  chant  the  alal  alal,  of 
tragic  chorus. 

—  The  nurs3  is  getting  dinner ;  you  are  holding  the 
baby;  Peggy  is  reading  Bruyere. 

The  fire  smoked  thick  as  pitch,  and  puffed  out  little 
clouds  over  the  chimney-piece.  I  gave  the  fore-stick  a 
kick  at  the  thought  of  Peggy,  baby,  and  Bruyere. 

—  Suddenly   the  flame   flickered  bluely  athwart  the 
smoke,  —  caught  at  a  twig  below,  —  rolled  round  the 
mossy  oak-stick,  —  twined   among  the   crackling   tree- 
limbs, —  mounted, — lit  up  the  whole  body  of  smoke, 
and  blazed  out  cheerily  and  bright.     Doubt  vanished  with 
Smoke,  and  Hope  began  with  Flame. 


n. 

BLAZE,  — SIGNIFYING  CHEEE. 

I  PUSHED  my  chair  back ;  drew  up  another ;  stretched 
out  my  feet  cosily  upon  it,  rested  my  elbows  on  the  chair- 
arms,  leaned  my  head  on  one  hand,  and  looked  straight 
into  the  leaping  and  dancing  flame. 


137 

—  Love  is  a  flame,  ruminated  I ;  and  (glancing  round 
the  room)  how  a  flame  brightens  up  a  man's  habitation ! 

"Carlo,"  said  I,  calling  up  my  dog  into  the  light, 
"  good  fellow,  Carlo !  "  And  I  patted  him  kindly,  and 
he  wagged  his  tail,  and  laid  his  nose  across  my  knee,  and 
looked  wistfully  up  in  my  face ;  then  strode  away,  — 
turned  to  look  again,  and  lay  down  to  sleep. 

" Pho,  the  brute ! "  said  I ;  "it  is  not  enough,  after 
all,  to  like  a  dog." 

—  If  now  in  that  chair  yonder,  not  the  one  your  feet 
lie  upon,  but  the  other,  beside  you,  —  closer  yet,  —  were 
seated  a  sweet-faced  girl,  with  a  pretty  little  foot  lying 
out  upon  the  hearth,  a  bit  of  lace  running  round  the 
swelling    throat,   the  hair  parted  to   a   charm  over   a 
forehead  fair  as  any  of  your  dreams ;  and  if  you  could 
reach  an  arm  around  that  chair-back,  without   fear  of 
giving  offence,  and  suffer  your  fingers  to  play  idly  with 
those  curls  that  escape  down  the  neck ;  and  if  you  could 
clasp  with  your  other  hand  those  little  white,  taper  fin- 
gsrs  of  hers,  which  lie  so  temptingly  within  reach,  —  and 
so,  talk  softly  and  low  in  presence  of  the  blaze,  while 
the  hours  slip  without  knowledge,  and  the  winter  winds 
whistle  uncared  for ;  if,  in  short,  you  were  no  bachelor, 
but  the  husband  of  some   such  sweet  image    (dream, 
call  it  rather),  would  it  not  be  far  pleasanter  than  this 
cold  single  night-sitting,   counting  the   sticks,  reckon- 
ing the  length  of  the  blaze  and  the  height  of  the  falling 
snow? 

And  if  some  or  all  of  those  wild  vagaries  that  grow  on 
your  fancy  at  such  an  hour  you  could  whisper  into  lis- 
tening, because  loving  ears,  —  ears  not  tired  with  listen- 


138  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

ing,  because  it  is  you  who  whisper,  —  ears  ever  indulges, 
because  eager  to  praise;  and  if  your  darkest  fancies 
were  lit  up,  not  merely  with  bright  wood-fire,  but  with  a 
ringing  laugh  of  that  sweet  face  turned  up  in  fond  re- 
buke,—  how  far  better  than  to  be  waxing  black  and 
sour  over  pestilential  humors  —  alone  —  your  very  dog 


And  if  when  a  glowing  thought  comes  into  your  brain, 
quick  and  sudden,  you  could  tell  it  over  as  to  a  second 
self,  to  that  sweet  creature,  who  is  not  away,  because  sl.o 
loves  to  be  there ;  and  if  you  could  watch  the  thought 
catching  that  girlish  mind,  illuming  that  fair  brow,  spark- 
ling in  those  pleasantest  of  eyes, — how  far  better  than 
to  feel  it  slumbering,  and  going  out,  heavy,  lifeless,  and 
dead,  in  your  own  selfish  fancy.  And  if  a  generous  emo- 
tion steals  over  you,  —  coming  you  know  not  whither,  — 
would  there  not  be  a  richer  charm  in  lavishing  it  in 
caress  or  endearing  word  upon  that  fondest  and  most 
dear  one,  than  in  patting  your  glossy-coated  dog,  or  sink- 
ing lonely  to  smiling  slumbers  ? 

How  would  not  benevolence  ripen  with  such  monitor 
to  task  it !  How  would  not  selfishness  grow  faint  and 
dull,  leaning  ever  to  that  second  self,  which  is  the  loved 
one  !  How  would  not  guile  shiver  and  grow  weak,  be- 
fore that  girl-brow,  and  eye  of  innocence !  How  would 
not  all  that  boyhood  prized  of  enthusiasm  and  quick 
blood  and  life  renew  itself  hi  such  presence ! 

The  fire  was  getting  hotter,  and  I  moved  into  the  mid- 
dle of  the  room.  The  shadows  the  flames  made  were 
playing  like  fairy  forms  over  floor  and  wall  and  ceiling. 

My  fancy  would  surely  quicken,  thought   I,  if  such 


BE  VERY.  139 

being  were  in  attendance.  Surely  imagination  would  be 
stronger  and  purer,  if  it  could  have  the  playful  fancies 
of  dawning  womanhood  to  delight  it.  All  toil  would  be 
torn  from  mind-labor,  if  but  another  heart  grew  into  this 
present  soul,  quickening  it,  warming  it,  cheering  it,  bid- 
ding it  ever  God  speed  ! 

Her  face  would  make  a  halo,  rich  as  a  rainbow,  atop 
of  all  such  noisome  things  as  we  lonely  souls  call  trouble. 
Her  smile  would  illumine  the  blackest  of  crowding  cares ; 
and  darkness,  that  now  seats  you  despondent  hi  your 
solitary  chair  for  days  together,  weaving  bitter  fancies, 
dreaming  bitter  dreams,  would  grow  light  and  thin,  and 
spread  and  float  away,  —  chased  by  that  beloved  smile. 

Your  friend,  —  poor  fellow  !  —  dies  :  never  mind,  that 
gentle  clasp  of  her  fingers,  as  she  steals  behind  you,  tell- 
ing you  not  to  weep,  —  it  is  worth  ten  friends  ! 

Your  sister,  sweet  one,  is  dead,  buried.  The  worms 
are  busy  with  all  her  fairness.  How  it  makes  you  think 
earth  nothing  but  a  spot  to  dig  graves  upon  ! 

—  It  is  more  :  she,  she  says,  will  be  a  sister ;  and  the 
waving  curls  as  she  leans  upon  your  shoulder  touch 
your  cheek,  and  your  wet  eye  turns  to  meet  those  other 
eyes,  —  God  has  sent  his  angel,  surely  ! 

Your  mother,  alas  for  it,  she  is  gone !  Is  there  any 
bitterness  to  a  youth  alone  and  homeless,  like  this  ? 

But  you  are  not  homeless ;  you  are  not  alone :  she  is 
there;  her  tears  softening  yours,  her  smile  lighting 
yours,  her  grief  killing  yours;  and  you  live  again,  to 
assuage  that  kind  sorrow  of  hers. 

Then,  those  children,  rosy,  fair-haired;  no,  they  do 
not  disturb  you  with  their  prattle  now,  —  they  are  yours ! 


140  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

Toss  away  there  on  the  greensward;  never  mind  the 
hyacinths,  the  snowdrops,  the  violets,  if  so  be  any  are 
there ;  the  perfume  of  their  healthful  lips  is  worth  all 
the  flowers  of  the  world.  No  need  now  to  gather  wild 
bouquets  to  love  and  cherish ;  flower,  tree,  gum,  are  all 
dead  things;  things  livelier  hold  your  soul. 

And  she,  the  mother,  sweetest  and  fairest  of  all, 
watching,  tending,  caressing,  loving,  till  your  own  heart 
grows  pained  with  tenderest  jealousy,  and  cures  itself 
with  loving. 

You  have  no  need  now  of  any  cold  lecture  to  teach 
thankfulness :  your  heart  is  full  of  it.  No  need  now, 
as  once,  of  bursting  blossoms,  of  trees  taking  leaf  and 
greenness,  to  turn  thought  kindly  and  thankfully;  for 
ever  beside  you  there  is  bloom,  and  ever  beside  you  there 
is  fruit,  —  for  which  eye,  heart,  and  soul  are  full  of  un- 
known and  unspoken,  because  unspeakable,  thank-offer- 
ing- 

And  if  sickness  catches  you,  binds  you,  lays  you  down, 
no  lonely  meanings,  and  wicked  curses  at  careless- 
stepping  nurses.  The  step  is  noiseless,  and  yet  distinct 
beside  you.  The  white  curtains  are  drawn  or  with- 
drawn by  the  magic  of  that  other  presence ;  and  the  soft, 
cool  hand  is  upon  your  brow. 

No  cold  comfortings  of  friend- watchers,  merely  come 
in  to  steal  a  word  away  from  that  outer  world  which  is 
pulling  at  their  skirts ;  but,  ever,  the  sad,  shaded  brow 
of  her  whose  lightest  sorrow  for  your  sake  is  your  great- 
est grief,  —  if  it  were  not  a  greater  joy. 

The  blaze  was  leaping  light  and  high,  and  the  wood 
falling  under  the  growing  heat. 


141 

• —  So,  continued  I,  this  heart  would  be  at  length  it- 
self; striving  with  everything  gross,  even  now  as  it 
clings  to  grossness.  Love  would  make  its  strength 
native  and  progressive.  Earth's  cares  would  fly.  Joys 
would  double;  susceptibilities  be  quickened;  Love 
master  itself,-  and,  having  made  the  mastery,  stretch 
onward  and  upward  toward  Infinitude. 

And  if  the  end  came,  and  sickness  brought  that  fol- 
lower — •  Great  Follower  —  which  sooner  or  later  is  sure 
to  come  after,  then  the  heart  and  the  hand  of  Love, 
ever  near,  are  giving  to  your  tired  soul,  daily  and  hourly, 
lessons  of  that  love  which  consoles,  which  triumphs, 
which  circleth  all,  and  centreth  in  all,  —  Love  Infinite 
and  Divine ! 

Kind  hands  —  none  but  hers  —  will  smooth  the  hair 
upon  your  brow  as  the  chill  grows  damp  and  heavy  on 
it ;  and  her  fingers  —  none  but  hers  —  will  lie  in  yours 
as  the  wasted  flesh  stiffens  and  hardens  for  the  ground. 
Her  tears  —  you  could  feel  no  others,  if  oceans  fell  — 
will  warm  your  drooping  features  once  more  to  life; 
once  more  your  eye,  lighted  in  joyous  triumph,  will 
kindle  in  her  smile,  and  then  — 

The  fire  fell  upon  the  hearth;  the  blaze  gave  a  last 
leap  —  a  flicker  —  then  another  —  caught  a  little  remain- 
ing twig  —  blazed  up  —  wavered  —  went  out. 

There  was  nothing  but  a  bed  of  glowing  embers,  over 
which  the  white  ashes  gathered  fast.  I  was  alone,  with 
only  my  dog  for  company. 


142  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

m. 

ASHES,  — SIGNIFYING    DESOLATION, 

AFTER  all,  thought  I,  ashes  follow  blaze,  inevitably 
as  Death  follows  Life.  Misery  treads  on  the  heels  of 
Joy;  Anguish  rides  swift  after  Pleasure. 

"  Come  to  nie  again,  Carlo,"  said  I,  to  my  dog ;  and 
I  patted  him  fondly  once  more,  but  now  only  by  the 
light  of  the  dying  embers. 

It  is  very  little  pleasure  one  takes  in  fondling  brute 
favorites ;  but  it  is  a  pleasure  that,  when  it  passes,  leaves 
no  void.  It  is  only  a  little  alleviating  redundance  in 
your  solitary  heart -life,  which,  if  lost,  another  can  be 
supplied. 

But  if  your  heart,  not  solitary,  not  quieting  its 
humors  with  mere  love  of  chase  or  dog,  not  repressing 
year  after  year  its  earnest  yearnings  after  something  bet- 
ter and  more  spiritual,  has  fairly  linked  itself  by  bonds 
strong  as  life  to  another  heart,  —  is  the  casting  off  easy 
then? 

Is  it  then  only  a  little  heart-redundancy  cut  off,  which 
the  next  bright  sunset  will  fill  up  ? 

And  my  fancy,  as  it  had  painted  doubt  under  the 
smoke,  and  cheer  under  warmth  of  the  blaze,  so  now 
it  began  under  the  faint  light  of  the  smouldering  embers 
to  picture  heart -desolation. 

—  What  kind  congratulatory  letters,  hosts  of  them, 
coming  from  old  and  half-forgotten  friends,  now  that 
your  happiness  is  a  year  or  two  years  old! 

"Beautiful." 


143 

—  Ay,  to  be  sure,  beautiful ! 
"Rich." 

—  Pho,  the  dawdler!  how  little  he  knows  of  heart- 
treasure,  who  speaks  of  wealth  to .  a  man  who  loves  his 
wife  as  a  wife  only  should  be  loved  ! 

"Young." 

—  Young  indeed;  guileless  as  infancy,  charming  as 
the  morning. 

Ah,  these  letters  bear  a  sting:  they  bring  to  mind, 
with  new  and  newer  freshness,  if  it  be  possible,  the 
value  of  that  which  you  tremble  lest  you  lose. 

How  anxiously  you  watch  that  step,  if  it  lose  not 
its  buoyancy ;  how  you  study  the  color  on  that  cheek, 
if  it  grow  not  fainter ;  how  you  tremble  at-  the  lustre  in 
those  eyes,  if  it  be  not  the  lustre  of  Death;  how  you 
totter  under  the  weight  of  that  muslin  sleeve,  —  a  phan- 
tom weight!  How  you  fear  to  do  it,  and  yet  press 
forward,  to  note  if  that  breathing  be  quickened,  as  you 
ascend  the  home-heights,  to  look  off  on  sunset  lighting 
the  plain. 

Is  your  sleep  quiet  sleep,  after  that  she  has  whispered 
to  you  her  fears,  and  in  the  same  breath  —  soft  as  a  sigh, 
sharp  as  an  arrow  —  bid  you  hear  it  bravely  ? 

Perhaps — the  embers  were  now  glowing  fresher,  a 
little  kindling  before  the  ashes  —  she  triumphs  over 
disease. 

But  Poverty,  the  world's  almoner,  has  come  to  you 
with  ready,  spare  hand. 

Alone,  with  your  dog  living  on  bones,  and  you  on 
hope,  —  kindling  each  morning,  dying  slowly  each  night, 
—  this  could  be  borne.  Philosophy  would  bring  home 


144  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

its  stores  to  the  lone  man.  Money  is  not  in  his  hand, 
but  Knowledge  is  in  his  brain !  and  from  that  brain  he 
draws  out  faster,  as  he  draws  slower  from  his  pocket. 
He  remembers;  and  on  remembrance  he  can  live  for 
days  and  weeks.  The  garret,  if  a  garret  covers  him,  is 
rich  in  fancies.  The  rain,  if  it  pelts,  pelts  only  him  used 
to  rain-peltings.  And  his  dog  crouches  not  in  dread, 
but  in  companionship.  His  crust  he  divides  with  him 
and  laughs.  He  crowns  himself  with  glorious  memories 
of  Cervantes,  though  he  begs :  if  he  nights  it  under  the 
stars,  he  dreams  heaven-sent  dreams  of  the  prisoned  and 
homeless  Galileo. 

He  hums  old  sonnets,  and  snatches  of  poor  Jonson's 
plays.  He  chants  Dryden's  odes,  and  dwells  on  Otway's 
rhyme.  He  reasons  with  BoHugbroke  or  Diogenes,  as 
the  humor  takes  him,  and  laughs  at  the  world :  for  the 
world,  thauk  Heaven,  has  let  him  alone ! 

Keep  your  money,  old  misers,  and  your  places,  old 
princes,  —  the  world  is  mine! 

"  I  care  not,  Fortune,  what  you  me  deny. 
You  cannot  rob  me  of  free  nature's  grace, 

You  cannot  shut  the  windows  of  the  sky, 
You  cannot  bar  my  constant  feet  to  trace 

The  woods  and  lawns,  by  living  streams,  at  eve. 
Let  health  my  nerves  and  finer  fibres  brace, 

And  I  their  toys  to  the  great  children  leave. 
Of  Fancy,  Reason,  Virtue,  naught  can  me  bereave !  " 
But  —  if  not  alone  ? 

If  she  is  clinging  to  you  for  support,  for  consolation, 
for  home,  for  life,  —  she,  reared  in  luxury  perhaps,  is 
faint  for  bread? 


145 

Then  the  iron  enters  the  soul ;  then  the  nights  darken 
under  any  skylight.  Then  the  days  grow  long,  even 
in  the  solstice  of  winter. 

She  may  not  complain ;  what  then  ? 

Will  your  heart  grow  strong,  if  the  strength  of  her 
love  can  dam  up  the  fountains  of  tears,  and  the  tied 
tongue  not  tell  of  bereavement  ?  Will  it  solace  you  to 
find  her  parting  the  poor  treasure  of  food  you  have 
stolen  for  her,  with  begging,  foodless  children? 

But  tlus  ill  strong  hands  and  Heaven's  help  will  put 
down.  Wealth  again ;  Flowers  again ;  Patrimonial  acres 
again;  Brightness  again.  But  your  little  Bessy,  your 
favorite  child,  is  pining. 

Would  to  God !  you  say  in  agony,  that  wealth  could 
bring  fulness  again  into  that  blanched  cheek,  or  round 
those  little  thin  lips  once  more ;  but  it  cannot.  Thinner 
and  thinner  they  grow ;  plaintive  and  more  plaintive  her 
sweet  voice. 

"Dear  Bessy,"  —  and  your  tones  tremble;  you  feel 
that  she  is  on  the  edge  of  the  grave.  Can  you  pluck  her 
back  ?  Can  endearments  stay  her  ?  Business  is  heavy, 
away  from  the  loved  child;  home  you  go,  to  fondle 
while  yet  time  is  left,  —  but  this  time  you  are  too  late. 
She  is  gone.  She  cannot  hear  you ;  she  cannot  thank 
you  for  the  violets  you  put  within  her  stiff  white  hand. 

And  then  —  the  grassy  mound  —  the  cold  shadow  of 
nead-stone ! 

The  wind,  growing  with  the  night,  is  rattling  at  the 
window-panes,  and  whistles  dismally.  I  wipe  a  tear, 
and,  in  the  interval  of  my  Revery,  thank  God  that  I 
am  no  such  mourner. 

VOL.  iv.  7  j 


146  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

But  gayety,  snail-footed,  creeps  back  to  the  household. 
All  is  bright  again,  — 

"  The  violet  bed 's  not  sweeter 
Than  the  delicious  breath  marriage  sends  forth." 

Her  lip  is  rich  and  full,  her  cheek  delicate  as  a  flower. 
Her  frailty  doubles  your  love. 

And  the  little  one  she  clasps,  —  frail  too,  too  frail : 
the  boy  you  had  set  your  hopes  and  heart  on. 

You  have  watched  him  growing,  ever  prettier,  ever 
winning  more  and  more  upon  your  soul.  The  love  you 
bore  to  him  when  he  first  lisped  names  —  your  name 
and  hers  —  has  doubled  in  strength  now  that  he  asks 
innocently  to  be  taught  of  this  or  that,  and  promises 
you,  by  that  quick  curiosity  that  flashes  in  his  eye,  a 
mind  full  of  intelligence. 

And  some  hair-breadth  escape  by  sea  or  flood,  that  he 
perhaps  may  have  had,  —  which  unstrung  your  soul  to 
such  tears  as  you  pray  God  may  be  spared  you  again,  — 
has  endeared  the  little  fellow  to  your  heart  a  thousand- 
fold. 

And  now,  with  his  pale  sister  in  the  grave,  all  that 
love  has  come  away  from  the  mound  where  worms  feast, 
and  centres  on  the  boy. 

How  you  watch  the  storms  lest  they  harm  him  !  How 
often  you  steal  to  his  bed  late  at  night,  and  lay  your 
hand  lightly  upon  the  brow,  where  the  curls  cluster 
thick,  rising  and  falling  with  the  throbbing  temples,  and 
watch,  for  minutes  together,  the  little  lips  half  parted, 
and  listen  —  your  ear  close  to  them  —  if  the  breathing 
be  regular  and  sweet! 


A  BACHELOR'S  REVERT.  147 

But  the  day  comes  —  the  night  rather  —  when  you 
can  catch  no  breathing. 

Ay,  put  your  hair  away,  —  compose  yourself,  —  listen 
again. 

No,  there  is  nothing ! 

Put  your  hand  now  to  his  brow,  —  damp  indend,  but  not 
with  healthful  night-sleep ;  it  is  not  your  hand,  no,  do 
not  deceive  yourself, — it  is  your  loved  boy's  forehead 
that  is  so  cold ;  and  your  loved  boy  will  never  speak  to 
you  again,  —  never  play  again :  he  is  dead  ! 

0,  the  tears,  the  tears;  what  blessed  things  are 
tears !  Never  fear  now  to  let  them  fall  on  his  forehead, 
or  his  lip,  lest  you  waken  him !  Clasp  him,  clasp  him 
harder :  you  cannot  hurt,  you  cannot  waken  him  !  Lay 
him  down,  gently  or  not,  it  is  the  same :  he  is  stiff;  he  is 
stark  and  cold. 

But  courage  is  elastic  ;  it  is  our  pride.  It  recovers 
itself  easier,  thought  I,  than  these  embers  will  get  into 
blaze  again. 

But  courage  and  patience  and  faith  and  hope  have 
their  limit.  Blessed  be  the  man  who  escapes  such  trial 
as  will  determine  limit ! 

To  a  lone  man  it  comes  not  near ;  for  how  can  trial 
take  hold  where  there  is  nothing  by  which  to  try  ? 

A  funeral  ?  You  reason  with  philosophy.  A  grave- 
yard ?  You  read  Hervey,  and  muse  upon  the  wall.  A 
friend  dies  ?  You  sigh,  you  pat  your  dog :  it  is  over. 
Losses  ?  You  retrench,  you  light  your  pipe :  it  is 
forgotten.  Calumny  ?  You  laugh,  you  sleep. 

But  with  that  childless  wife  clinging  to  you  in  love 
and  sorrow,  —  what  then  ? 


148  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

Can  you  take  down  Seneca  now,  and  coolly  blow  the 
dust  from  the  leaf-tops  ?  Can  you  crimp  your  lip  with 
Voltaire  ?  Can  you  smoke  idly,  your  feet  dangling  with 
the  ivies,  your  thoughts  all  waving  fancies  upon  a  church- 
yard wall,  —  a  wall  that  borders  the  grave  of  your  boy  ? 

Can  you  amuse  yourself  by  turning  stinging  Martial 
into  rhyme  ?  Can  you  pat  your  dog,  and,  seeing  him 
wakeful  and  kind,  say,  "  It  is  enough"  ?  Can  you  sneer 
at  calumny,  and  sit  by  your  fire  dozing  ? 

Blessed,  thought  I  again,  is  the  man  who  escapes  such 
trial  as  will  measure  the  limit  of  patience  and  the  limit 
of  courage  ! 

But  the  trial  comes  :  —  colder  and  colder  were  growing 
the  embers. 

That  wife,  over  whom  your  love  broods,  is  fading. 
Not  beauty  fading  ;  that,  now  that  your  heart  is  wrapped 
in  her  being,  would  be  nothing. 

She  sees  with  quick  eye  your  dawning  apprehension, 
and  she  tries  hard  to  make  that  step  of  hers  elastic. 

Your  trials  and  your  loves  together  have  centred  your 
affections.  They  are  not  now  as  when  you  were  a  lone 
man,  widespread  and  superficial.  They  have  caught 
from  domestic  attachments  a  finer  tone  and  touch.  They 
cannot  shoot  out  tendrils  into  barren  world-soil  and  suck 
up  thence  strengthening  nutriment.  They  have  grown 
under  the  forcing- glass*of  home -roof,  they  will  not  now 
bear  exposure. 

You  do  not  now  look  men  in  the  face  as  if  a  heart- 
bond  was  linking  you,  as  if  a  community  of  feeling  lay 
between.  There  is  a  heart-bond  that  absorbs  all  others ; 
there  is  a  community  that  monopolizes  your  feeling. 


149 

When  the  heart  lay  wide  open,  before  it  had  grown  upon 
and  closed  around  particular  objects,  it  could  take  strength 
and  cheer  from  a  hundred  connections  that  now  seem 
colder  than  ice. 

And  now  those  particular  objects  —  alas  for  you  !  — 
are  failing. 

What  anxiety  pursues  you !  How  you  struggle  to 
fancy  there  is  no  danger ;  how  she  struggles  to  persuade 
you  there  is  no  danger  ! 

How  it  grates  now  on  your  ear,  —  the  toil  and  turmoil 
of  the  city  !  It  was  music  when  you  were  alone  ;  it  was 
pleasant  even,  from  the  din  you  were  elaborating  comforts 
for  the  cherished  objects ;  —  when  you  had  such  sweet- 
escape  as  evening  drew  on. 

Now  it  maddens  you  to  see  the  world  careless  wliile 
you  are  steeped  in  care.  They  hustle  you  in  the  street ; 
they  smile  at  you  across  the  table ;  they  bow  carelessly 
over  the  way ;  they  do  not  know  what  canker  is  at  your 
heart. 

The  undertaker  comes  with  his  bill  for  the  dead  boy's 
funeral.  He  knows  your  grief ;  he  is  respectful.  You 
bless  him  in  your  soul.  You  wish  the  laughing  street- 
goers  were  all  undertakers. 

Your  eye  follows  the  physician  as  he  leaves  your 
house  :  is  he  wise  ?  you  ask  yourself ;  is  he  prudent  ?  is 
he  the  best  ?  Did  he  never  fail  ?  is  he  never  forgetful  ? 

And  now  the  hand  that  touches  yours,  is  it  no  thin- 
ner, no  whiter  than  yesterday  ?  Sunny  days  come  when 
she  revives  ;  color  comes  back ;  she  breathes  freer ;  she 
picks  flowers ;  she  meets  you  with  a  smile :  hope  lives 
again. 


150  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

But  the  next  day  of  storm  she  is  fallen.  She  cannot 
talk  even ;  she  presses  your  hand. 

You  hurry  away  from  business  before  your  time. 
What  matter  for  clients,  —  who  is  to  reap  the  rewards  ? 
What  matter  for  fame,  —  whose  eye  will  it  brighten  ? 
What  matter  for  riches,  —  whose  is  the  inheritance  ? 

You  find  her  propped  with  pillows ;  she  is  looking 
over  a  little  picture-book  bethunibed  by  the  dear  boy 
she  has  lost.  She  hides  it  in  her  chair ;  she  has  pity  on 
you. 

—  Another  day  of  revival,  when  the  spring  sun  shines, 
and  flowers  open  out  of  doors ;  she  leans  on  your  arm, 
and  strolls  into  the  garden  where  the  first  birds  are 
singing.  Listen  to  them  with  her ;  —  what  memories 
are  in  bird-songs  !  You  need  not  shudder  at  her  tears, 
—  they  are  tears  of  thanksgiving.  Press  the  hand  that 
lies  light  upon  your  arm,  and  you,  too,  thank  God,  while 
yet  you  may ! 

You  are  early  home,  —  mid-afternoon.  Your  step  is 
not  light ;  it  is  heavy,  terrible. 

They  have  sent  for  you. 

She  is  lying  down ;  her  eyes  half  closed ;  her  breath- 
ing long  and  interrupted. 

She  hears  you ;  her  eyes  open ;  you  put  your  hand  in 
hers ;  yours  trembles  :  hers  does  not.  Her  lips  move  ; 
it  is  your  name. 

"  Be  strong,"  she  says ;  "  God  will  help  you !  " 

She  presses  harder  your  hand  :  —  "  Adieu !  " 

A  long  breath  —  another ;  you  are  alone  again.  No 
tears  now ;  poor  man  !  You  cannot  find  them ! 


151 

—  Again  home  early.     There  is  a  smell  of  varnish  in 
your  house.     A  coffin  is  there ;    they  have  clothed  the 
body    in  decent  grave-clothes,   and  the  undertaker  is 
screwing  down  the  lid,  slipping  round  on  tiptoe.     Does 
he  fear  to  waken  her  ? 

He  asks  you  a  simple  question  about  the  inscription 
upon  the  plate,  rubbing  it  with  his  coat-cuff.  You  look 
him  straight  in  the  eye ;  you  motion  to  the  door ;  you 
dare  not  speak. 

He  takes  up  his  hat  and  glides  out  stealthful  as  a  cat. 

The  man  has  done  his  work  well  for  all.  It  is  a  nice 
coffin,  —  a  very  nice  coffin !  Pass  your  hand  over  it,  — 
how  smooth ! 

Some  sprigs  of  mignonette  are  lying  carelessly  in  a 
little  gilt-edged  saucer.  She  loved  mignonette. 

It  is  a  good  stanch  table  the  coffin  rests  on:  it  ia 
your  table ;  you  are  a  housekeeper,  —  a  man  of  family  ! 

Ay,  of  family  !  —  keep  down  outcry,  or  the  nurse  will 
be  in.  Look  over  at  the  pinched  features ;  is  this  all 
that  is  left  of  her  ?  And  where  is  your  heart  now  ?  No, 
don't  thrust  your  nails  into  your  hands,  nor  mangle  your 
lip,  nor  grate  your  teeth  together.  If  you  could  only 
weep  ! 

—  Another  day.     The  coffin  is  gone  out.     The  stupid 
mourners  have  wept,  —  what  idle  tears  !     She,  with  your 
crushed  heart,  has  gone  out ! 

Will  you  have  pleasant  evenings  at  your  home  now  ? 

Go  into  your  parlor  that  your  prim  housekeeper  has 
made  comfortable  with  clean  hearth  and  blaze  of  sticks. 

Sit  down  in  your  chair;  there  is  another  velvet- 
cushioned  one,  over  against  yours,  —  empty.  You  press 


152  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

your  fingers  on  your  eyeballs,  as  if  you  would  press  out 
something  that  hurt  the  brain;  but  you  cannot.  Your 
head  leans  upon  your  hand;  your  eye  rests  upon  the 
flashing  blaze. 

Ashes  always  come  after  blaze. 

Go  now  into  the  room  where  she  was  sick,  —  softly, 
lest  the  prim  housekeeper  come  after. 

They  have  put  new  dimity  upon  her  chair ;  they  have 
hung  new  curtains  over  the  bed.  They  have  removed 
from  the  stand  its  phials  and  silver  bell ;  they  have  put 
a  little  vase  of  flowers  in  their  place ;  the  perfume  will 
not  offend  the  sick  sense  now.  They  have  half  opened 
.  the  window,  that  the  room  so  long  closed  may  have  air. 
It  will  not  be  too  cold.  She  is  not  there. 

—  0  God  !  thou  who  dost  temper  the  wind  to  the 
shorn  lamb,  be  kind  ! 

The  embers  were  dark.  I  stirred  them  ;  there  was  no 
sign  of  life.  My  dog  was  asleep.  The  clock  in  my 
tenant's  chamber  had  struck  one. 

I  dashed  a  tear  or  two  from  my  eyes  :  how  they  came 
there  I  know  not.  I  half  ejaculated  a  prayer  of  thanks, 
that  such  desolation  had  not  yet  come  nigh  me ;  and  a 
prayer  of  hope,  that  it  might  never  come. 

In  a  half-hour  more  I  was  sleeping  soundly.  My  rev- 
ery  was  ended. 


THE   GRAMMAR   OP   LIFE. 

BY  BENJAMIN  F.  TAYLOR. 

JONG  time  ago,"  some  day  this  month,  —  you  and 
I  should  remember  exactly,  —  a  man  was  born 
whose  name  has  been  to  the  juvenile  world  "  a 
household  word"  ;  sometimes  a  word  of  terror,  but  now, 
as  I  remember  it,  a  word  to  conjure  with,  to  wave  up 
scenes  and  forms  long  faded  and  crumbled.  LINDLEY 
MURRAY  !  Did  you  ever  hear  of  him  ?  And  do  you 
not  remember  his  little  book,  that  like  another  "  little 
book  "  was  "  bitter,"  and  never  sweet  at  all  ?  And  don't 
you  recollect  how  firmly  it  was  bound,  old  Ironsides  that 
it  was,  and  what  was  on  the  fly-leaf,  —  John,  or  James, 
or  David  Somebody,  "his  book,"  and  that  Lochiel-like 
couplet,  — 

"  Steal  not  this  book,  my  honest  friend, 
For  fear  the  gallows  shall  be  your  end," 

and  who  printed  it,  H.  and  E.  Phinney,  and  the  year,  1800 
and  something  ? 

Shut  your  eyes  now,  and  you  can  see  every  page  of 
that  old  grammar ;   just  where  the  noun  began,  and  the 
"verb  to  be,"  and  Syntax,  with  its  terrible  code  of 
twenty-two,  exactly  twenty-two  rules. 
7* 


154  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

And  how  like  quarter-horses  we  plunged  through  the 
moods  and  tenses  of  the  verb  "  Love " !  Who  has 
forgotten,  or  who  ever  can  forget,  how  it  went,  and  we 
went ?  "I  love,  loved,  have  loved,  had  loved,  shall  or 
will  love,  shall  have  loved."  On  we  darted,  through  the 
cans  and  the  coulds  and  the  mights  of  the  potential, 
and  the  mysterious  contingencies  of  the  subjunctive,  till 
we  rounded  to  on  the  trio  of  participles  that  brought  up 
the  rear  of  this  marvellous  cavalcade  of  deeds,  probable 
and  possible,  present,  past,  and  future,  in  the  great  art 
and  action  of  loving. 

And  then,  when  you  came  to  prepositions,  how  they 
puzzled  you,  —  how  they  puzzled  us  all !  Don't  you 
remember  the  definition?  Right-hand  page,  four  lines 
from  the  top,  just  before  conjunctions,  on  the  threshold 
of  Syntax? 

Thus  it  ran  :  "  Prepositions  are  words  used  to  connect 
words,  and  show  the  relation  between  them  "  ;  or,  to  give 
little  Joe  Miller's  or  some  other  little  fellow's  version, 
"  Pep'sition  word  used  c'nect  words  show  'lation  'tween 
'em."  Showed  "  relation,"  did  they  ?  And  what  rela- 
tion? Blood  relation,  or  relation  by  marriage?  And 
so  we  puzzled  and  pondered,  and  passed  it  over,  and 
learned  "  the  list,"  that  went  like  a  flock  of  sheep  over  a 
wall,  "  of,  to,  for,  by,  with,  in." 

And  who  has  forgotten  those  queer  contrivances  of 
conjunctions,  that  connected  and  did  n't  connect  ?  And 
what  a  God-send  the  interjection  was,  in  the 'midst  of  the 
fog,  with  its  oh  !  ah  !  and  alas  !  Often  had  we  employed 
it ;  we  understood,  felt,  appreciated  it. 

Then  the  wonderful  process  they  called  "  Parsing,"  - 


THE    GRAMMAR   OF    LIFE.  155 

wonder  if  they  do  it  yet ;  when  we  used  to  take  couplets 
from  the  prince  of  English  rhyme,  and,  a  row  of  little 
cannibals  that  we  were,  there  we  stood,  beneath  the 
unwinking  optics  of  our  teacher,  and  "transposed,"  alias 
mutilated,  "paraphrased,"  alias  butchered,  and  every- 
thing but  devoured,  his  immortal  lines ! 
Do  you  not  recollect  how  we  disposed  of 

"  In  spite  of  pride,  in  erring  reason's  spite, 
One  truth  is  clear,  —  whatever  is,  is  right "  ? 

After  much  science  and  little  sense,  the  light  used  to 
burst  upon  our  bedazzled  intellects,  about  once  a  winter, 
that  Pope  meant  to  say,  and  did  say,  "  whatever  is  right, 
is  right !  "  Do  they  dream  in  the  grave  ?  Does  the 
bard  sleep  peaceful  yet? 

And  where 's  the  boy  that  sat  next,  in  the  grammar 
elass?  And  the  bright-eyed  girl,  that  used  to  whisper 
the  answer  so  softly  to  us,  and  save  our  juvenile  palms 
many  an  acquaintance  with  the  oaken  ferule,  —  where  is 
she  ?  Does  she  whisper  hope  and  happiness  to  anybody 
still  ?  Are  her  eyes  as  bright  and  her  steps  as  light  as 
of  old  ?  Or  has  Death,  that  great  bailiff,  closed  her  eyes 
and  set  a  seal  upon  her  lips  ?  Who  knows  ?  Who  can 
tell? 

And  the  old  schoolmaster,  gray  "  as  long  ago  as  we 
can  remember,"  —  gray  before  that,  —  does  he  teach 
grammar  still  ?  Is  his  step  as  firm  and  his  eye  as  steel- 
like  gray  as  it  was  wont  to  be  then  ? 

And  the  ancient  schoolma'am,  old  Miss  E.,  who  lived 
in  the  yellow  house  next  to  the  village  green,  and  taught 
us  spelling  and  etymology ;  she  too  is  conjured  up  by  the 


156  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

spell  of  "  Old  Murray/'  and  we  see  her  looking  over 
those  spectacles,  as  she  used  to  do  when  she  meant  to  be 
"  awful."  One  day  she  "  put  out "  celibacy,  and  though 
5t  was  the  name  of  her  lonely  state  —  poor  old  lady  !  — • 
that  circumstance  did  n't  let  her  into  the  pronunciation, 
and  "  sillybossy,"  for  so  she  gave  it,  threw  the  class  into 
convulsions.  Great  was  her  wrath  on  that  memorable 
day.  Two  of  us  were  imprisoned  beneath  the  stairs ; 
two  were  sentenced  to  stand  upon  one  foot ;  one  held  in 
extended  hand  Walker's  Dictionary,  —  decidedly  a  great 
work  was  that  dictionary ;  and  a  lad  who  was  desperately 
"  afraid  of  the  girls  "  was  set  between  a  bouncing  brace 
of  them.  But  it  would  n't  do.  "  Sillybossy  "  would  not 
down,  and  smothered  sounds,  chokings,  outright  laughter, 
broke  forth  from  every  corner,  around  the  perplexed  and 
angry  schoolma'am.  Years  have  fled ;  the  tenant  of  the 
old  yellow  house  is  doubtless  borne  away,  and  "the 
places  that  once  knew  her  shall  know  her  no  more  for- 
ever." 

So  much  for  "  Old  Murray  "  and  the  memories  it  has 
awakened;  and  beautified  by  time,  I  can  almost  wish 
myself  back  again,  in  the  midst  of  the  days  when  Murray 
was  a  terror,  and  his  pages  a  mystery. 

But  why  didn't  "the  master"  hint,  some  time,  that 
we  should  never  be  done  with  the  tenses  until  we  were 
done  with  time  ?  That  the  world  is  full  of  them?  That 
the  world  is  made  of  them  ?  That,  for  the  sturdy,  iron 
present  tense,  full  of  facts  and  figures,  knocks  and 
knowledge,  we  must  look  among  the  men  in  middle  life, 
—  the  diggers  and  workers  of  the  world  ;  the  men  who, 
of  all  others,  have  discovered,  for  the  very  first  time,  at 


THE    GRAMMAR   OF    LIFE.  157 

forty  or  forty-five,  that  the  present  tense  is  now  ;  that  in 
the  shop,  the  store,  the  warehouse,  the  field,  on  docks 
and  decks,  the  real,  living  present  reigns  supreme  ?  That, 
for  the  bright,  golden,  joyous  future,  full  of  the  tones 
of  silver  bells  and  beating  hearts,  merry  tongues  and 
merry  feet,  you  must  look  in  our  swarming  schools, 
peep  beneath  little  soft  blankets  in  cradles  at  firesides, 
or  examine  small  bundles  of  white  dimity?  That  we 
should  find  the  future  astride  of  a  rocking-horse  ;  lullaby- 
ing  a  wax  baby ;  flying  kites,  trundling  hoops,  or  blowing 
penny- whistles  ?  Why  did  n't  he  tell  us  —  or  did  he 
leave  that  for  the  poets  ?  —  that  they  who  wear  the  silver 
livery  of  Time,  who  linger  tremblingly  amid  the  din  and 
jar  of  life,  whose  voices,  like  a  failing  fountain,  are  not 
musical  as  of  old,  —  that  they  are  the  melancholy  past  ? 
Why  did  n't  he  teach  us  —  or  did  he  leave  that  for  the 
preachers  ?  —  that  "  cold  obstruction  "  claims  all  times 
for  its  own :  glowing  action,  the  present ;  hope,  the  fu- 
ture ;  and  memory,  the  past  ? 

' c One  pluperfect  "  !  Ah  !  we  have  had  that  to  ^^learn 
since.  "  One  future"  !  Who  does  not  thank  God  that, 
in  this  world  of  ours,  there  are  a  myriad  ? 

"  I  shall  be,"  and  "  I  might  have  been  "  !  The  former 
the  music  of  youth,  sweet  as  the  sound  of  silver  bells ; 
fresh  as 

"  The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn  "  ; 

the  latter,  the  plaint  of  age,  the  dirge  of  hope,  the 
inscription  for  a  tomb.  The  one  trembles  upon  thin, 
pale  lips,  parched  with  "  life's  fitful  fever "  ;  the  other 
swells  from  strong,  young  hearts,  to  lips  rounded  and 


158  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

dewy,  with  the  sweetness  of  hope  and  the  fulness  of 
strength.  The  one  is  timed  by  a  heart  that  flutters, 
intermits,  flutters,  and  wears  out ;  while  that  of  the  other 
beats  right  on,  in  the  bold,  stern  march  of  life. 

"  I  shall  be,"  and  "  I  might  have  been  "  !  What  toil 
and  trouble,  time  and  tears,  are  recorded  in  those  little 
words,  —  the  very  stenography  of  life !  How  like  a 
bugle-call  is  that  "  I  shall  be,"  from  a  young  soul,  strong 
in  prophecy  !  "  I  shall  be  —  great,  honored,  affluent, 
good" 

"  I  shall  be,"  whispers  the  glad  girl  to  herself,  as,  with 
one  foot  upon  the  threshold  of  womanhood,  she  catches 
the  breath  from  the  summer-fields  of  life,  —  "I  shall  be 
—  loved  by  and  by  !  "  That  is  her  aspiration  ;  for  to  be 
loved  is  to  be  happy. 

"  I  shall  be,"  says  the  struggling  boy,  —  "  I  shall  be 
the  possessor  of  a  little  home  of  my  own,  and  a  little 
wife,  some  day,  and  the  home  shall  be  ours,  and  the  wife 
shall  be  mine,  and  then — and  then — "  Who  can  fill  out 
those  "  thens  "  ?  TTho,  but  the  painter  that  has  dipped 
his  pen  in  sunset  ?  Who,  but  the  poet  whose  lips  have 
been  touched  with  a  coal  fresh  from  the  altar  of  inspira- 
tion ? 

"  I  shall  be  —  victorious  yet,"  murmurs  the  man  in  the 
middle  watch,  who  had  been  battling  with  foes  till  night 
fell,  and  is  praying,  like  the  Greek,  for  dawn  again,  that 
"he  may  see  to  fight." 

"  I  shall  be,"  faintly  breathes  the  languishing  upon  her 
couch  of  pain,  —  "I  shall  be  better  to-morrow,  or  to- 
morrow " ;  and  she  lives  on,  because  she  hopes  on,  and 
she  grows  strong  with  the  "  shall  be  "  she  has  uttered. 


THE    GRAMMAR   OF   LIFE.  159 

And  the  strong  man  armed,  who  has  "  fought  the  good 
fight,"  and  has  "  kept  the  faith,"  when  they  that  sustained 
his  extended  hands  through  the  battle  are  departing,  and 
no  Joshua  to  bid  the  declining  sun  "  stand  still,"  as  he 
looks  beyond  the  rugged  hills  of  the  world,  and  sees  a 
window  opened  in  heaven,  and  a  wounded  hand  put  forth 
in  welcome,  lays  aside  the  armor  he  has  worn  so  long 
and  well,  and  going  down  into  the  dark  river,  he  utters, 
with  a  hope  glorified  to  faith,  "  I  shall  be  over  the  Jordan 
to-morrow ! " 

Before  the  memory  has  a  tomb  in  it,  —  before  it  be- 
comes the  cemetery  of  the  soul,  —  "I  shall  be  "  is  beautiful 
as  an  old  ballad.  When  graves  are  digged  therein,  and 
willows  are  planted,  and  hopes  are  buried,  and  no  light 
breaks  out  of  the  cloud,  then  "  I  shall  be  "  is  as  grand  as 
an  old  paean.  When 

"  The  battle  is  done,  the  harp  unstrung, 
Its  music  trembling,  dying," 

then  "  I  shall  be  "  is  as  sublime  as  an  old  prophecy ! 

But  there  is  another  tense  in  this  Grammar  of  Life 
it  were  well  to  remember;  the  sparkling  moment  that 
dances  out  from  the  ripening  hours,  like  golden  grain, 
beneath  the  flails  of  Time,  as  we  write,  and  even  as  we 
write,  is  gathered  into  the  great  garner  of  the  Past. 


MY  CHATEAUX. 

BY  GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS. 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 
A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree. 

COLEHIDGE. 

AM  the  owner  of  great  estates.  Many  of  them 
lie  in  the  West;  but  the  greater  part  are  in 
Spain.  You  may  see  my  western  possessions 
any  evening  at  sunset,  when  their  spires  and  battlements 
flash  against  the  horizon. 

It  gives  me  a  feeling  of  pardonable  importance,  as  a 
proprietor,  that  they  are  visible,  to  my  eyes  at  least, 
from  any  part  of  the  world  in  which  I  chance  to  be.  In 
my  long  voyage  around  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope  to  India 
(the  only  voyage  I  ever  made,  when  I  was  a  boy  and  a 
supercargo),  if  I  fell  homesick,  or  sank  into  a  re  very  of 
all  the  pleasant  homes  I  had  left  behind,  I  had  but  to 
wait  until  sunset,  and  then  looking  toward  the  west,  I 
beheld  my  clustering  pinnacles  and  towers  brightly  bur- 
nished as  if  to  salute  and  welcome  me. 

So,  in  the  city,  if  I  get  vexed  and  wearied,  and  cannot 
find  my  wonted  solace  in  sallying  forth  at  dinner-time  to 
contemplate  the  gay  world  of  youth  and  beauty  hurrying 


MY    CHATEAUX.  161 

to  the  congress  of  fashion,  or  if  I  observe  that  years 
are  deepening  their  tracks  around  the  eyes  of  my  wife 
Prue,  I  go  quietly  up  to  the  house-top,  toward  evening, 
and  refresh  myself  with  a  distant  prospect  of  my  estates. 
It  is  as  dear  to  me  as  that  of  Eton  to  the  poet  Gray ; 
and,  if  I  sometimes  wonder  at  such  moments  whether  I 
shall  find  those  realms  as  fair  as  they  appear,  I  am  sud- 
denly reminded  that  the  night-air  may  be  noxious,  and, 
descending,  I  enter  the  little  parlor  where  Prue  sits 
stitching,  and  surprise  that  precious  woman  by  exclaim- 
ing, with  the  poet's  pensive  enthusiasm,  — 

"  Thought  would  destroy  their  Paradise, 
No  more ;  —  where  ignorance  is  bliss, 
'T  is  folly  to  be  wise." 

Columbus,  also,  had  possessions  in  the  West ;  and  as 
I  read  aloud  the  romantic  story  of  his  life,  my  voice 
quivers  when  I  come  to  the  point  in  which  it  is  related 
that  sweet  odors  of  the  land  mingled  with  the  sea-air,  as 
the  admiral's  fleet  approached  the  shores ;  that  tropical 
birds  flew  out  and  fluttered  around  the  ships,  glittering 
in  the  sun,  the  gorgeous  promises  of  the  new  country ; 
that  boughs,  perhaps  with  blossoms  not  all  decayed, 
floated  out  to  welcome  the  strange  wood  from  which  the 
craft  were  hollowed.  Then  I  cannot  restrain  myself.  I 
think  of  the  gorgeous  visions  I  have  seen  before  I  have 
even  undertaken  the  journey  to  the  West,  and  I  cry 
aloud  to  Prue, — 

"What  sun-bright  birds,  and  gorgeous  blossoms,  and 
celestial  odors  will  float  out  to  us,  my  Prue,  as  we  ap- 
proach our  western  possessions!" 

K 


162  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

The  placid  Prae  raises  her  eyes  to  mine  with  a  reproof 
so  delicate  that  it  could  not  be  trusted  to  words ;  and, 
after  a  moment,  she  resumes  her  knitting,  and  I  proceed. 

These  are  my  western  estates,  but  my  finest  castles  are 
in  Spain.  It  is  a  country  famously  romantic,  and  my 
castles  are  all  of  perfect  proportions,  and  appropriately 
set  in  the  most  picturesque  situations.  I  have  never 
been  to  Spain  myself,  but  I  have  naturally  conversed 
much  with  travellers  to  that  country ;  although,  I  must 
allow,  without  deriving  from  them  much  substantial  in- 
formation about  my  property  there.  The  wisest  of  them 
told  me  that  there  were  more  holders  of  real  estate  in 
Spain  than  in  any  other  region  he  had  ever  heard  of, 
and  they%e  all  great  proprietors.  Every  one  of  them 
possesses  a  multitude  of  the  stateliest  castles.  From 
conversation  with  them  you  easily  gather  that  each  one 
considers  his  own  castles  much  the  largest  and  in  the 
loveliest  positions.  And,  after  I  had  heard  this  said,  I 
verified  it,  by  discovering  that  all  my  immediate  neigh- 
bors in  the  city  were  great  Spanish  proprietors. 

One  day  as  I  raised  my  head  from  entering  some  long 
and  tedious  accounts  in  my  books,  and  began  to  reflect 
that  the  quarter  was  expiring,  and  that  I  must  begin  to 
prepare  the  balance-sheet,  I  observed  my  subordinate  in 
office,  but  not  in  years,  (for  poor  old  Titbottom  will  never 
see  sixty  again!)  leaning  on  his  hand,  and  much  ab- 
stracted. 

"  Are  you  not  well,  Titbottom  ?  "  asked  I. 

"  Perfectly,  but  1  was  just  building  a  castle  in  Spain," 
said  he. 

I  looked  at  his  rusty  coat,  his  faded  hands,  his  sad 


MY    CHATEAUX.  168 

eye,  and  white  hair  for  a  moment,  in  great  surprise,  and 
then  inquired,  — 

"  Is  it  possible  that  you  own  property  there  too  ? ' 
He  shook  his  head  silently;  and  still  leaning  on  his 
hand,  and  with  an  expression  in  his  eye  as  if  he  were 
looking  upon  the  most  fertile  estate  of  Andalusia,  he 
went  on  making  his  plans ;  laying  out  his  gardens,  I 
suppose,  building  terraces  for  the  vines,  determining  a 
library  with  a  southern  exposure,  and  resolving  which 
should  be  the  tapestried  chamber. 

"What  a  singular  whim,"  thought  I,  as  I  watched 
Titbottom,  and  filled  up  a  check  for  four  hundred  dollars, 
my  quarterly  salary,  "  that  a  man  who  owns  castles  in 
Spain  should  be  deputy  book-keeper  at  nine  hundred 
dollars  a  year!" 

When  I  went  home  I  ate  my  dinner  silently,  and  after- 
wards sat  for  a  long  time  upon  the  roof  of  the  house, 
looking  at  my  western  property,  and  thinking  of  Tit- 
bottom. 

It  is  remarkable  that  none  of  the  proprietors  have  ever 
been  to  Spain  to  take  possession  and  report  to  the  rest 
of  us  the  state  of  our  property  there.  I,  of  course,  can- 
not go,  I  am  too  much  engaged.  So  is  Titbottom.  And 
I  find  it  is  the  case  with  all  the  proprietors.  We  have 
so  much  to  detain  us  at  home  that  we  cannot  get  away. 
But  it  is  always  so  with  rich  men.  Prue  sighed  once  as 
she  sat  at  the  window  and  saw  Bourne,  the  millionnaire, 
the  president  of  innumerable  companies,  and  manager 
and  director  of  all  the  charitable  societies  in  town,  going 
by  with  wrinkled  brow  and  hurried  step.  I  asked  her 
why  she  sighed. 


164  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

"  Because  I  was  remembering  that  my  mother  used  to 
tell  me  not  to  desire  great  riches,  for  they  occasioned 
great  cares,"  said  she. 

"  They  do  indeed,"  answered  I,  with  emphasis,  remem- 
bering Titbottom,  and  the  impossibility  of  looking  after 
my  Spanish  estates. 

Prue  turned  and  looked  at  me  with  mild  surprise; 
but  I  saw  that  her  mind  had  gone  down  the  street  with 
Bourne.  I  could  never  discover  if  he  held  much  Spanish 
stock.  But  I  think  he  does.  All  the  Spanish  proprie- 
tors have  a  certain  expression.  Bourne  has  it  to  a  re- 
markabl*  degree.  It  is  a  kind  of  look,  as  if,  in  fact,  a 
man's  mind  were  in  Spain.  Bourne  was  an  old  lover  of 
Prue's,  and  he  is  not  married,  which  is  strange  for  a  man 
in  his  position. 

It  is  not  easy  for  me  to  say  how  I  know  so  much,  as  I 
certainly  do,  about  my  castles  in  Spain.  The  sun  always 
shines  upon  them.  They  stand  lofty  and  fair  in  a  lumi- 
nous, golden  atmosphere,  a  little  hazy  and  dreamy,  per- 
haps, like  the  Indian  summer,  but  in  which  no  gales 
blow  and  there  are  no  tempests.  All  the  sublime  moun- 
tains, and  beautiful  valleys,  and  soft  landscape,  that  I 
have  not  yet  seen,  are  to  be  found  in  the  grounds. 
They  command  a  noble  view  of  the  Alps ;  so  fine,  indeed, 
that  I  should  be  quite  content  with  the  prospect  of  them 
from  the  highest  tower  of  my  castle,  and  not  care  to  go 
to  Switzerland. 

The  neighboring  ruins,  too,  are  as  picturesque  as  those 
of  Italy,  and  my  desire  of  standing  in  the  Coliseum,  and 
of  seeing  the  shattered  arches  of  the  Aqueducts  stretch- 
ing along  the  Campagna  and  melting  into  the  Alban 


MY   CHATEAUX.  165 

Mount,  is  entirely  quenched.  The  rich  gloom  of  my 
orange  groves  is  gilded  by  fruit  as  brilliant  of  complexion 
and  exquisite  of  flavor  as  any  that  ever  dark-eyed  Sor- 
rento girls,  looking  over  the  high  plastered  walls  of 
Southern  Italy,  hand  to  the  youthful  travellers,  climbing 
on  donkeys  up  the  narrow  lane  beneath. 

The  Nile  flows  through  my  grounds.  The  Desert  lies 
upon  their  edge,  and  Damascus  stands  in  my  garden.  I 
am  given  to  understand,  also,  that  the  Parthenon  has 
been  removed  to  my  Spanish  possessions.  The  Golden 
Horn  is  my  fish-preserve  ;  my  flocks  of  golden  fleece  are 
pastured  on  the  plain  of  Marathon,  and  the  honey  of 
Hymettus  is  distilled  from  the  flowers  that  grow  in  the 
vale  of  Enna,  —  all  in  my  Spanish  domains. 

Erom  the  windows  of  those  castles  look  the  beautiful 
women  whom  I  have  never  seen,  whose  portraits  the 
poets  have  painted.  They  wait  for  me  there,  and  chiefly 
the  fair-haired  child,  lost  to  my  eyes  so  long  ago,  now 
bloomed  into  an  impossible  beauty.  The  lights  that 
never  shone  glance  at  evening  in  the  vaulted  halls,  upon 
banquets  that  were  never  spread.  The  bands  I  have 
never  collected  play  all  night  long,  and  enchant  the 
brilliant  company,  that  was  never  assembled,  into  si- 
lence. 

In  the  long  summer  mornings  the  children  that  I 
never  had  play  in  the  gardens  that  I  never  planted.  I 
hear  their  sweet  voices  sounding  low  and  far  away,  call- 
ing, "Father!  father!"  I  see  the  lost  fair-haired  girl, 
grown  now  into  a  woman,  descending  the  stately  stairs 
of  my  castle  in  Spain,  stepping  out  upon  the  lawn,  and 
playing  with  those  children.  They  bound  away  together 


166  LITTLE   CLASSICS. 

down  the  garden ;  but  those  voices  linger,  this  time  airily 
calling,  "  Mother !  mother ! " 

But  there  is  a  stranger  magic  than  this  in  my  Spanish 
estates.  The  lawny  slopes  on  which,  when  a  child,  I 
played,  in  my  father's  old  country-place,  which  was  sold 
when  he  failed,  are  all  there,  and  not  a  flower  faded,  nor 
a  blade  of  grass  sere.  The  green  leaves  have  not  fallen 
from  the  spring  woods  of  half  a  century  ago,  and  a  gor- 
geous autumn  has  blazed  undimmed  for  fifty  years  among 
the  trees  I  remember. 

Chestnuts  are  not  especially  sweet  to  my  palate  now, 
but  those  with  which  I  used  to  prick  my  fingers  when 
gathering  them  in  New  Hampshire  woods  are  exquisite 
as  ever  to  ray  taste,  when  I  think  of  eating  them  in  Spain. 
I  never  ride  horseback  now  at  home ;  but  in  Spain, 
when  I  think  of  it,  I  bound  over  all  the  fences  in  the 
country,  bare-backed  upon  the  wildest  horses.  Sermons 
I  am  apt  to  find  a  little  soporific  in  this  country ;  but  in 
Spain  I  should  listen  as  reverently  as  ever,  for  proprie- 
tors must  set  a  good  example  on  their  estates. 

Plays  are  insufferable  to  me  here,  —  Prue  and  I  never 
go.  Prue,  indeed,  is  not  quite  sure  it  is  moral ;  but  the 
theatres  in  my  Spanish  castles  are  of  a  prodigious  splen- 
dor, and  when  I  think  of  going  there,  Prue  sits  in  a 
front  box  with  me, — a  kind  of  royal  box,  —  the  good 
woman  attired  in  such  wise  as  I  have  never  seen  her 
here,  while  I  wear  my  white  waistcoat,  which  in  Spain 
has  no  appearance  of  mending,  but  dazzles  with  immortal 
newness,  and  is  a  miraculous  fit. 

Yes,  and  in  those  castles  in  Spain,  Prue  is  not  the 
placid,  breeches-patching  helpmate,  with  whom  you  are 


MY    CHATEAUX.  167 

acquainted,  but  her  face  has  a  bloom  which  we  both  re- 
member, and  her  movement  a  grace  which  my  Spanish 
swans  emulate,  and  her  voice  a  music  sweeter  than  those 
that  orchestras  discourse.  She  is  always  there  what  she 
seemed  to  me  when  I  feU  in  love  with  her,  many  and 
many  years  ago.  The  neighbors  called  her  then  a  nice, 
capable  girl ;  and  certainly  she  did  knit  and  darn  with  a 
zeal  and  success  to  which  my  feet  and  my  legs  have  testi- 
fied for  nearly  half  a  century.  But  she  could  spin  a 
finer  web  than  ever  came  from  cotton,  and  in  its  subtle 
meshes  my  heart  was  entangled,  and  there  has  reposed 
softly  and  happily  ever  since.  The  neighbors  declared 
she  could  make  pudding  and  cake  better  than  any  girl  of 
her  age ;  but  stale  bread  from  Prue's  hand  was  ambrosia 
to  my  palate. 

"She  who  makes  everything  well,  even  to  making 
neighbors  speak  well  of  her,  will  surely  make  a  good 
wife,"  said  I  to  myself  when  I  knew  her ;  and  the  echo 
of  a  half-century  answers,  "  a  good  wife." 

So,  when  I  meditate  my  Spanish  castles,  I  see  Prue  in 
them  as  my  heart  saw  her  standing  by  her  father's  door. 
"Age  cannot  wither  her."  There  is  a  magic  in  the 
Spanish  air  that  paralyzes  Time.  He  glides  by  unno- 
ticed and  unnoticing.  I  greatly  admire  the  Alps,  which 
I  see  so  distinctly  from  my  Spanish  windows ;  I  delight 
in  the  taste  of  the  Southern  fruit  that  ripens  upon  my 
terraces  ;  I  enjoy  the  pensive  shade  of  the  Italian  ruins 
in  my  gardens ;  I  like  to  shoot  crocodiles,  and  talk  with 
the  Sphinx  upon  the  shores  of  the  Nile,  flowing  through 
my  domain;  I  am  glad  to  drink  sherbet  in  Damascus, 
and  fleece  my  flocks  on  the  plains  of  Marathon ;  but  I 


168  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

would  resign  all  these  forever  rather  than  part  with  that 
Spanish  portrait  of  Prue  for  a  day.  Nay,  have  I  not 
resigned  them  all  forever,  to  live  with  that  portrait's 
changing  original? 

I  have  often  wondered  how  I  should  reach  my  castles. 
The  desire  of  going  comes  over  me  very  strongly  some- 
times, and  I  endeavor  to  see  how  I  can  arrange  my 
affairs  so  as  to  get  away.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  am  not 
quite  sure  of  the  route,  —  I  mean,  to  that  particular  part 
of  Spain  in  which  niy  estates  lie.  I  have  inquired  very 
particularly,  but  nobody  seems  to  know  precisely.  One 
morning  I  met  young  Aspen,  trembling  with  excitement, 

"  What 's  the  matter  ?  "  asked  I  with  interest,  for  I 
knew  that  he  held  a  great  deal  of  Spanish  stock. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  he,  "  I  'm  going  out  to  take  possession. 
I  have  found  the  way  to  my  castles  in  Spain." 

"  Dear  me !  "  I  answered,  with  the  blood  streaming 
into  my  face ;  and,  heedless  of  Prue,  pulling  my  glove 
until  it  ripped,  —  "  what  is  it  ?  " 

"The  direct  route  is  through  California,"  answered 
he. 

"  But  then  you  have  the  sea  to  cross  afterward,"  said 
I,  remembering  the  map. 

"  Not  at  all,"  answered  Aspen,  "  the  road  runs  along 
the  shore  of  the  Sacramento  River." 

He  darted  away  from  me,  and  I  did  not  meet  him 
again.  I  was  very  curious  to  know  if  he  arrived  safely 
in  Spain,  and  was  expecting  every  day  to  hear  news  from 
him  of  my  property  there,  when  one  evening  I  bought  an 
extra,  full  of  California  news,  and  the  first  thing  upon 
which  my  eye  fell  was  this :  "  Died,  in  San  Francisco, 


MY   CHATEAUX.  169 

Edward  Aspen,  Esq.,  aged  35."  There  is  a  large  body 
of  the  Spanish  stockholders  who  believe  with  Aspen, 
and  sail  for  California  every  week.  I  have  not  yet  heard 
of  their  arrival  out  at  their  castles,  but  I  suppose  they 
are  so  busy  with  their  own  affairs  there,  that  they  have 
no  time  to  write  to  the  rest  of  us  about  the  condition  of 
our  property. 

There  was  my  wife's  cousin,  too,  Jonathan  Bud,  who 
is  a  good,  honest  youth  from  the  country,  and,  after  a 
few  weeks'  absence,  he  burst  into  the  office  one  day,  just 
as  I  was  balancing  my  books,  and  whispered  to  me, 
eagerly,  — 

"  I  've  found  my  castle  in  Spain." 
I  put  the  blotting-paper  in  the  leaf  deliberately,  for  I 
was  wiser  now  than  when  Aspen  had  excited  me,  and 
looked  at  my  wife's  cousin,  Jonathan  Bud,  inquiringly. 
"  Polly  Bacon,"  whispered  he,  winking. 
I  continued  the  interrogative  glance. 
"  She  's  going  to  marry  me,  and  she  '11  show  me  the 
way  to  Spain,"  said  Jonathan  Bud,  hilariously. 

"  She  '11  make  you  walk  Spanish,  Jonathan  Bud," 
said  I. 

And  so  she  does.  He  makes  no  more  hilarious  re- 
marks. He  never  bursts  into  a  room.  He  does  not  ask 
us  to  dinner.  He  says  that  Mrs.  Bud  does  not  like 
smoking.  Mrs.  Bud  has  nerves  and  babies.  She  has  a 
way  of  saying  "  Mr.  Bud !  "  which  destroys  conversa- 
tion, and  casts  a  gloom  upon  society. 

It  occurred  to  me  that  Bourne,  the  millionnaire,  must 
have  ascertained  the  safest  and  most  expeditious  route 
to  Spain ;  so  I  stole  a  few  minutes  one  afternoon,  and 

VOL.  IV.  8 


170  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

went  into  his  office.  He  was  sitting  at  his  desk,  writing 
rapidly,  and  surrounded  by  files  of  papers  and  patterns, 
specimens,  boxes,  everything  that  covers  the  tables  of  a 
great  merchant.  In  the  outer  rooms  clerks  were  writing. 
Upon  high  shelves  over  their  heads  were  huge  chests, 
covered  with  dnst,  dingy  with  age,  many  of  them,  and 
all  marked  with  the  name  of  the  firm,  in  large  black  let- 
ters, —  "  Bourne  &  Dye."  They  were  all  numbered  also 
with  the  proper  year ;  some  of  them  with  a  single  capital 
B,  and  dates  extending  back  into  the  last  century,  when 
old  Bourne  made  the  great  fortune,  before  he  went  into 
partnership  with  Dye.  Everything  was  indicative  of  im- 
mense and  increasing  prosperity. 

There  were  several  gentlemen  in  waiting  to  converse 
with  Bourne  (we  all  call  him  so,  familiarly,  down  town), 
and  I  waited  until  they  went  out.  But  others  came  in. 
There  was  no  pause  in  the  rush.  All  kinds  of  inquiries 
were  made  and  answered.  At  length  I  stepped  up. 

"  A  moment,  please,  Mr.  Bourne." 

He  looked  up  hastily,  wished  me  good  morning,  which 
he  had  done  to  none  of  the  others,  and  which  courtesy  I 
attributed  to  Spanish  sympathy. 

"What  is  it,  sir?"  he  asked  blandly,  but  with  wrin- 
kled brow. 

f '  Mr.  Bourne,  have  you  any  castles  in  Spain  ?  "  said 
I,  without  preface. 

He  looked  at  me  for  a  few  moments  without  speaking, 
and  without  seeming  to  see  me.  His  brow  gradually 
smoothed,  and  his  eyes,  apparently  looking  into  the 
street,  were  really,  I  have  no  doubt,  feasting  upon  the 
Spanish  landscape. 


MY    CHATEAUX.  171 

"  Too  many,  too  many,"  said  he  at  length,  musingly 
shaking  his  head,  and  without  addressing  me. 

I  suppose  he  felt  himself  too  much  extended,  —  as  we 
say  in  Wall  Street.  He  feared,  I  thought,  that  he  had 
too  much  impracticable  property  elsewhere,  to  own  so 
much  in  Spain;  so  I  asked, — 

"  Will  you  tell  me  what  you  consider  the  shortest  and 
safest  route  thither,  Mr.  Bourne  ?  Tor,  of  course,  a  man 
who  drives  such  an  immense  trade  with  all  parts  of  the 
world,  will  know  all  that  I  have  come  to  inquire." 

"  My  dear  sir,"  answered  he,  wearily,  "  I  have  been 
trying  all  my  life  to  discover  it ;  but  none  of  my  ships 
have  ever  been  there,  none  of  my  captains  have  any 
report  to  make.  They  bring  me,  as  they  brought  my 
father,  gold-dust  from  Guinea;  ivory,  pearls,  and  precious 
stones  from  every  part  of  the  earth;  but  not  a  fruit, 
not  a  solitary  flower,  from  one  of  my  castles  in  Spain. 
I  have  sent  clerks,  agents,  and  travellers  of  all  kinds, 
philosophers,  pleasure-hunters,  and  invalids,  in  all  sorts 
of  ships,  to  all  sorts  of  places,  but  none  of  them  ever  saw 
or  heard  of  my  castles,  except  one  young  poet,  and  he 
died  in  a  mad-house." 

"  Mr.  Bourne,  will  you  take  five  thousand  at  ninety- 
seven  ?  "  hastily  demanded  a  man,  whom,  as  he  entered, 
I  recognized  as  a  broker.  "We'll  make  a  splendid 
thing  of  it." 

Bourne  nodded  assent,  and  the  broker  disappeared. 

"  Happy  man !  "  muttered  the  merchant,  as  the  broker 
went  out ;  "  he  has  no  castles  in  Spain." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  troubled  you,  Mr.  Bourne,"  said 
I,  retiring. 


172  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

"  I  am  glad  you  came,"  returned  he ;  "  but  I  assure 
you,  had  I  known  the  route  you  hoped  to  ascertain  from 
me,  I  should  have  sailed  years  and  years  ago.  People 
sail  for  the  Northwest  Passage,  which  is  nothing  when 
you  have  found  it.  Why  don't  the  English  Admiralty 
fit  out  expeditions  to  discover  all  our  castles  in  Spain  ?  " 

He  sat  lost  in  thought. 

"  It 's  nearly  post-time,  sir,"  said  the  clerk. 

Mr.  Bourne  did  not  heed  him.  He  was  still  musing; 
and  I  turned  to  go,  wishing  him  good  morning.  When 
I  had  nearly  reached  the  door,  he  called  me  back,  saying, 
as  if  continuing  his  remarks,  — 

"  It  is  strange  that  you,  of  all  men,  should  come  to 
ask  me  this  question.  If  I  envy  any  man,  it  is  you,  for 
I  sincerely  assure  you  that  I  supposed  you  lived  alto- 
gether upon  your  Spanish  estates.  I  once  thought  I 
knew  the  way  to  mine.  I  gave  directions  for  furnishing 
them,  and  ordered  bridal  bouquets,  which  were  never 
used,  but  I  suppose  they  are  there  still." 

He  paused  a  moment,  then  said  slowly,  "  How  is  your 
wife?" 

I  told  him  that  Prue  was  well ;  that  she  was  always 
remarkably  well.  Mr.  Bourne  shook  me  warmly  by  the 
hand. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  he.     "  Good  morning." 

I  knew  why  he  thanked  me ;  I  knew  why  he  thought 
that  I  lived  altogether  upon  my  Spanish  estates ;  I  knew 
a  little  bit  about  those  bridal  bouquets.  Mr.  Bourne, 
the  millionnaire,  was  an  old  lover  of  Prue's.  There  is 
something  very  odd  about  these  Spanish  castles.  When 
I  think  of  them,  I  somehow  see  the  fair-haired  girl  whom 


MY    CHATEAUX.  173 

I  knew  when  I  was  not  out  of  short  jackets.  When 
Bourne  meditates  them,  he  sees  Prue  and  me  quietly  at 
home  in  their  best  chambers.  It  is  a  very  singular  thing 
that  my  wife  should  live  in  another  man's  castle  in  Spain. 

At  length  I  resolved  to  ask  Titbottom  if  he  had  ever 
heard  of  the  best  route  to  our  estates.  He  said  that  he 
owned  castles,  and  sometimes  there  was  an  expression 
in  his  face,  as  if  he  saw  them.  I  hope  he  did.  I  should 
long  ago  have  asked  him  if  he  had  ever  observed  the 
turrets  of  my  possessions  in  the  West,  without  alluding 
to  Spain,  if  I  had  not  feared  he  would  suppose  I  was 
mocking  his  poverty.  I  hope  his  poverty  has  not  turned 
his  head,  for  he  is  very  forlorn. 

One  Sunday  I  went  with  him  a  few  miles  into  the 
country.  It  was  a  soft,  bright  day;  the  fields  and  hills 
lay  turned  to  the  sky,  as  if  every  leaf  and  blade  of  grass 
were  nerves  bared  to  the  touch  of  the  sun.  I  almost 
felt  the  ground  warm  under  my  feet.  The  meadows 
waved  and  glittered,  the  lights  and  shadows  were  ex- 
quisite, and  the  distant  hills  seemed  only  to  remove  the 
horizon  farther  away.  As  we  strolled  along,  picking 
wild-flowers,  for  it  was  in  summer,  I  was  thinking  what 
a  fine  day  it  was  for  a  trip  to  Spain,  when  Titbottom 
suddenly  exclaimed, — 

"  Thank  God  !  I  own  this  landscape." 

"You?"  returned  I. 

"  Certainly,"  said  he. 

"Why,"  I  answered,  "I  thought  this  was  part  of 
Bourne's  property ! " 

Titbottom  smiled. 

"  Does  Bourne  own  the  sun  and  sky  ?    Does  Bourne 


174  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

own  that  sailing  shadow  yonder  ?  Does  Bourne  own  the 
golden  lustre  of  the  grain,  or  the  motion  of  the  wood,  or 
those  ghosts  of  hills,  that  glide  pallid  along  the  horizon  ? 
.  Bourne  owns  the  dirt  and  fences ;  I  own  the  beauty  that 
makes  the  landscape,  or  otherwise  how  could  I  own  cas- 
tles in  Spain  ?  " 

That  was  very  true.  I  respected  Titbottom  more  than 
ever. 

"Do  you  know,"  said  he,  after  a  long  pause,  "that 
I  fancy  my  castles  lie  just  beyond  those  distant  hills. 
At  all  events,  I  can  see  them  distinctly  from  their  sum- 
mits." 

He  smiled  quietly  as  he  spoke,  and  it  was  then  I 
asked,  — 

"  But,  Titbottom,  have  you  never  discovered  the  way 
to  them?" 

"  Dear  me  !  yes,"  answered  he,  "  I  know  the  way  well 
enough ;  but  it  would  do  no  good  to  follow  it.  I  should 
give  out  before  I  arrived.  It  is  a  long  and  difficult  jour- 
ney for  a  man  of  my  years  and  habits  —  and  income,"  he 
added  slowly. 

As  he  spoke  he  seated  himself  upon  the  ground ;  and 
while  he  pulled  long  blades  of  grass,  and,  putting  them 
between  his  thumbs,  whistled  shrilly,  he  said,  — 

"  I  have  never  known  but  two  men  who  reached  their 
estates  in  Spain." 

"  Indeed !  "  said  I,  "  how  did  they  go  ?  " 

"  One  went  over  the  side  of  a  ship,  and  the  other  out 
of  a  third-story  window,"  said  Titbottom,  fitting  a  broad 
blade  between  his  thumbs  and  blowing  a  demoniacal 
blast. 


MY    CHATEAUX.  175 

"And  I  know  one  proprietor  who  resides  upon  his 
estates  constantly,"  continued  he. 
"Who  is  that?" 

"Our  old  friend  Slug,  whom  you  may  see  any  day 
at  the  asylum,  just  coming  in  from  the  hunt,  or  going 
to  call  upon  his  friend  the  Grand  Lama,  or  dressing  for 
the  wedding  of  the  Man  in  the  Moon,  or  receiving  an 
ambassador  from  Timbuctoo.  Whenever  I  go  to  see 
him,  Slug  insists  that  I  am  the  Pope,  disguised  as  a 
journeyman  carpenter,  and  he  entertains  me  in  the  most 
distinguished  manner.  He  always  insists  upon  kissing 
my  foot,  and  I  bestow  upon  him,  kneeling,  the  apostolic 
benediction.  This  is  the  only  Spanish  proprietor  in  pos- 
session with  whom  I  am  acquainted." 

And,  so  saying,  Titbottom  lay  back  upon  the  ground, 
and,  making  a  spy-glass  of  his  hand,  surveyed  the  land- 
scape through  it.  This  was  a  marvellous  book-keeper 
of  more  than  sixty  ! 

"  I  know  another  man  who  lived  in  his  Spanish  castle 
for  two  months,  and  then  was  tumbled  out  head  first. 
That  was  young  Stunning,  who  married  old  Buhl's  daugh- 
ter. She  was  all  smiles,  and  mamma  was  all  sugar,  and 
Stunning  was  all  bliss,  for  two  months.  He  carried  his 
head  in  the  clouds,  and  felicity  absolutely  foamed  at  his 
eyes.  He  was  drowned  in  love;  seeing,  as  usual,  not 
what  really  was,  but  what  he  fancied.  He  lived  so  ex- 
clusively in  his  castle,  that  he  forgot  the  office  down 
town,  and  one  morning  there  came  a  fall,  and  Stunning 
was  smashed." 

Titbottom  arose,  and,  stooping  over,  contemplated  the 
landscape,  with  his  head  down  between  his  legs. 


176  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

"  It 's  quite  a  new  effect,  so,"  said  the  nimble  book- 
keeper. 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  Stunning  failed  ?  " 

"  O  yes,  smashed  all  up,  and  the  castle  in  Spain  came 
down  about  his  ears  with  a  tremendous  crash.  The 
family  sugar  was  all  dissolved  into  the  original  cane  in 
a  moment.  Fairy-times  are  over,  are  they  ?  Heigh-ho  ! 
the  falling  stones  of  Stunning's  castle  have  left  their 
marks  all  over  his  face.  I  call  them  his  Spanish  scars." 

"But,  my  dear  Titbottom,"  said  I,  "what  is  the  mat- 
ter with  you  this  morning  ?  Your  usual  sedateness  is 
quite  gone." 

"  It 's  only  the  exhilarating  air  of  Spam,"  he  an- 
swered. "  My  castles  are  so  beautiful  that  I  can  never 
think  of  them,  nor  speak  of  them,  without  excitement ; 
when  I  was  younger  I  desired  to  reach  them  even  more 
ardently  than  now,  because  I  heard  that  the  philoso- 
pher's stone  was  in  the  vault  of  one  of  them." 

"Indeed,"  said  I,  yielding  to  sympathy;  "and  I  have 
good  reason  to  believe  that  the  fountain  of  eternal  youth 
flows  through  the  garden  of  one  of  mine.  Do  you  know 
whether  there  are  any  children  upon  your  grounds  r  " 

"  '  The  children  of  Alice  call  Bartrum  father ! '  "  re- 
plied Titbottom  solemnly,  and  in  a  low  voice,  as  he  fold- 
ed his  faded  hands  before  him,  and  stood  erect,  looking 
wistfully  over  the  landscape.  The  light  wind  played 
with  his  thin  white  hair,  and  his  sober  black  suit  was 
almost  sombre  in  the  sunshine.  The  half-bitter  expres- 
sion, which  I  had  remarked  upon  his  face  during  part 
of  our  conversation,  had  passed  away,  and  the  old  sad- 
ness had  returned  to  his  eye.  He  stood,  in  the  pleasant 


MY    CHATEAUX.  177 

morning,  the  very  image  of  a  great  proprietor  of  castles 
in  Spain. 

"There  is  •wonderful  music  there/'  he  said;  "some- 
times I  awake  at  night,  and  hear  it.  It  is  full  of  the 
sweetness  of  youth,  and  love,  and  a  new  world.  I  lie 
and  listen,  and  I  seem  to  arrive  at  the  great  gates  of  my 
estates.  They  swing  open  upon  noiseless  hinges,  and 
the  tropic  of  my  dreams  receives  me.  Up  the  broad 
steps,  whose  marble  pavement  mingled  light  and  shadow 
print  with  shifting  mosaic,  beneath  the  boughs  of  lus- 
trous oleanders,  and  palms,  and  trees  of  unimaginable 
fragrance,  I  pass  into  the  vestibule,  warm  with  summer 
odors,  and  into  the  presence-chamber  beyond,  where  my 
wife  awaits  me.  But  castle,  and  wife,  and  odorous 
woods,  and  pictures,  and  statues,  and  all  the  bright 
substance  of  my  household,  seem  to  reel  and  glimmer 
in  the  splendor,  as  the  music  fails. 

"But  when  it  swells  again,  I  clasp  the  wife  to  my 
heart,  and  we  move  on  with  a  fair  society,  beautiful 
women,  noble  men,  before  whom  the  tropical  luxuriance 
of  that  world  bends  and  bows  in  homage ;  and,  through 
endless  days  and  nights  of  eternal  summer,  the  stately 
revel  of  our  life  proceeds.  Then,  suddenly,  the  music 
stops.  I  hear  my  watch  ticking  under  the  pillow.  I 
see  dimly  the  outline  of  my  little  upper  room.  Then  I 
fall  asleep,  and  in  the  morning  some  one  of  the  boarders 
at  the  breakfast-table  says,  — 

"'Did  you  hear  the  serenade  last  night,  Mr.  Tit- 
bottom?'" 

I  doubted  no  longer  that  Titbottom  was  a  very  exten- 
sive proprietor.  The  truth  is,  that  he  was  so  constantly 
8*  L 


IT'S  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

engaged  in  planning  and  arranging  his  castles,  that  he 
conversed  very  little  at  the  office,  and  I  had  misinter- 
preted his  silence.  As  we  walked  homeward,  that  day, 
he  was  more  than  ever  tender  and  gentle.  "  We  must 
all  have  something  to  do  in  this  world,"  said  he,  "  and 
I,  who  have  so  much  leisure,  —  for  you  know  I  have  no 
wife  nor  children  to  work  for,  —  know  not  what  I  should 
do,  if  I  had  not  my  castles  in  Spain  to  look  after." 

TVlien  I  reached  home,  my  darling  Prue  was  sitting  in 
the  small  parlor,  reading.  I  felt  a  little  guilty  for  hav- 
ing been  so  long  away,  and  upon  my  only  holiday  too. 
So  I  began  to  say  that  Titbottom  invited  me  to  go  to 
walk,  and  that  I  had  no  idea  we  had  gone  so  far,  and 
that  — 

"Don't  excuse  yourself,"  said  Prue,  smiling  as  she 
laid  down  her  book ;  "  I  am  glad  you  have  enjoyed  your- 
self. You  ought  to  go  out  sometimes,  and  breathe  the 
fresh  air,  and  run  about  the  fields,  which  I  am  not  strong 
enough  to  do.  TThy  did  you  not  bring  home  Mr.  Tit- 
bottom  to  tea  ?  He  is  so  lonely,  and  looks  so  sad.  I 
am  sure  he  has  very  little  comfort  in  this  life,"  said  my 
thoughtful  Prue,  as  she  called  Jane  to  set  the  tea-table. 

"  But  he  has  a  good  deal  of  comfort  in  Spain,  Prue/' 
answered  I. 

"  When  was  Mr.  Titbottom  in  Spain  ? "  inquired  my 
wife. 

"  Why,  he  is  there  more  than  half  the  time,"  I  replied. 

Prue  looked  quietly  at  me  and  smiled.  "  I  see  it  has 
done  you  good  to  breathe  the  country  air,"  said  she. 
"  Jane,  get  some  of  the  blackberry  jam,  and  call  Adoni- 
ram  and  the  children." 


MY    CHATEAUX.  179 

So  we  went  in  to  tea.  We  eat  in  the  tack  parlor,  for 
our  little  house  and  limited  means  do  not  allow  us  to 
have  things  upon  the  Spanish  scale.  It  is  better  than  a 
sermon  to  hear  my  wife  Prue  talk  to  the  children;  and 
when  she  speaks  to  me  it  seems  sweeter  than  psalm- 
singing;  at  least,  such  as  we  have  in  our  church.  I  am 

very  happy. 

Yet  I  dream  my  dreams,  and  attend  to  my  castles  in 
Spain.  I  have  so  much  property  there  that  I  could  not, 
in  conscience,  neglect  it.  All  the  years  of  my  youth, 
and  the  hopes  of  my  manhood,  are  stored  away,  like 
precious  stones,  in  the  vaults ;  and  I  know  that  I  shall 
find  everything  convenient,  elegant,  and  beautiful,  when 
I  come  into  possession. 

As  the  years  go  by,  I  am  not  conscious  that  my  inter- 
est diminishes.  If  I  see  that  age  is  subtly  sifting  his 
snow  in  the  dark  hair  of  my  Prue,  I  smile  contented, 
for  her  hair,  dark  and  heavy  as  when  I  first  saw  it,  is 
all  carefully  treasured  in  my  castles  in  Spain.  If  I  feel 
her  arm  more  heavily  leaning  upon  mine,  as  we  walk 
around  the  squares,  I  press  it  closely  to  my  side,  for  I 
know  that  the  easy  grace  of  her  youth's  motion  will  be 
restored  by  the  elixir  of  that  Spanish  air.  If  her  voice 
sometimes  falls  less  clearly  from  her  lips,  it  is  no  less 
sweet  to  me,  for  the  music  of  her  voice's  prime  fills, 
freshly  as  ever,  those  Spanish  halls.  If  the  light  I  love 
fades  a  little  from  her  eyes,  I  know  that  the  glances  she 
gave  me  in  our  youth  are  the  eternal  sunshine  of  my 
castles  in  Spain. 

I  defy  time  and  change.  Each  year  laid  upon  our 
heads  is  a  hand  of  blessing.  I  have  no  doubt  that  I 


180  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

shall  find  the  shortest  route  to  my  possessions  as  soon  as 
need  be.  Perhaps,  when  Adoniram  is  married,  we  shall 
all  go  out  to  one  of  my  castles  to  pass  the  honeymoon. 

Ah!  if  the  true  history  of  Spain  could  be  written, 
what  a  book  were  there !  The  most  purely  romantic 
ruin  in  the  world  is  the  Alhambra.  But  of  the  Spanish 
castles,  more  spacious  and  splendid  than  any  possible 
Alhambra,  and  forever  unruined,  no  towers  are  visible, 
no  pictures  have  been  painted,  and  only  a  few  ecstatic 
songs  have  been  sung.  The  pleasure-dome  of  Kubla 
Khan,  which  Coleridge  saw  in  Xanadu  (a  province  with 
which  I  am  not  familiar),  and  a  fine  Castle  of  Indolence 
belonging  to  Thomson,  and  the  Palace  of  art  which  Ten- 
nyson built  as  a  "lordly  pleasure-house"  for  his  soul, 
are  among  the  best  statistical  accounts  of  those  Spanish 
estates.  Turner,  too,  has  done  for  them  much  the  same 
service  that  Owen  Jones  has  done  for  the  Alhambra.  In 
the  vignette  to  Moore's  Epicurean  you  will  find  repre- 
sented one  of  the  most  extensive  castles  in  Spain ;  and 
there  are  several  exquisite  studies  from  others,  by  the 
same  artists,  published  in  Rogers's  Italy. 

But  I  confess  I  do  not  recognize  any  of  these  as  mine, 
and  that  fact  makes  me  prouder  of  my  own  castles ;  for, 
if  there  be  such  boundless  variety  of  magnificence  in 
their  aspect  and  exterior,  imagine  the  life  that  is  led 
there,  a  life  not  unworthy  such  a  setting. 

If  Adoniram  should  be  married  within  a  reasonable 
time,  and  we  should  make  up>-  that  little  family  party 
to  go  out,  I  have  considered  already  what  society  I 
should  ask  to  meet  the  bride.  Jephthah's  daughter  and 
the  Chevalier  Bayard,  I  should  say,  and  fair  Rosamond 


MY    CHATEAUX.  181 

•with  Dean  Swift.  King  Solomon  and  the  Queen  of 
Sheba  would  come  over,  I  think,  from  his  famous  castle. 
Shakespeare  and  his  friend  the  Marquis  of  Southamp- 
ton might  come  hi  a  galley  with  Cleopatra ;  and,  if  any 
guest  were  offended  by  her  presence,  he  should  devote 
himself  to  the  Fair  One  with  Golden  Locks.  Mephis- 
topheles  is  not  personally  disagreeable,  and  is  exceed- 
ingly well-bred  in  society,  I  am  told;  and  he  should 
come  tete-a-tete  with  Mrs.  Rawdon  Crawley.  Spenser 
should  escort  his  Eaerie  Queen,  who  would  preside  at 
the  tea-table. 

Mr.  Samuel  Weller  I  should  ask  as  Lord  of  Misrule, 
and  Dr.  Johnson  as  the  Abbot  of  Unreason.  I  would 
suggest  to  Major  Dobbin  to  accompany  Mrs.  Ery ;  Alci- 
biades  would  bring  Homer  and  Plato  in  his  purple-sailed 
galley;  and  I  would  have  Aspasia,  Ninon  de  PEnclos, 
and  Mrs.  Battle,  to  make  up  a  table  of  whist  with  Queen 
Elizabeth.  I  shall  order  a  seat  placed  in  the  oratory  for 
Lady  Jane  Grey  and  Joan  of  Arc.  I  shall  invite  General 
Washington  to  bring  some  of  the  choicest  cigars  from 
his  plantation  for  Sir  Walter  Raleigh;  and  Chaucer, 
Browning,  and  Walter  Savage  Landor  should  talk  with 
Goethe,  who  is  to  bring  Tasso  on  one  arm  and  Iphigenia 
on  the  other. 

Dante  and  Mr.  Carlyle  would  prefer,  I  suppose,  to 
go  down  into  the  dark  vaults  under  the  castle.  The 
Man  in  the  Moon,  the  Old  Harry,  and  William  of  the 
Wisp  would  be  valuable  additions,  and  the  Laureate 
Tennyson  might  compose  an  official  ode  upon  the  occa- 
sion :  or  I  would  ask  "  They  "  to  say  all  about  it. 

Of  course  there  are  many  other  guests  whose  names 


182  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

I  do  not  at  the  moment  recall.  But  I  should  invite, 
first  of  all,  Miles  Coverdale,  who  knows  everything 
about  these  places  and  this  society,  for  he  was  at  Blithe- 
dale,  and  he  has  described  "a  select  party"  which  he 
attended  at  a  castle  in  the  air. 

Prue  has  not  yet  looked  over  the  list.  In  fact,  I  am 
not  quite  sure  that  she  knows  my  intention.  For  I  wish 
to  surprise  her,  and  I  think  it  would  be  generous  to  ask 
Bourne  to  lead  her  out  in  the  bridal  quadrille.  I  think 
that  I  shall  try  the  first  waltz  with  the  girl  I  sometimes 
seem  to  see  in  my  fairest  castle,  but  whom  I  very  vaguely 
remember.  Titbottom  will  come  with  old  Burton  and 
Jaques.  But  I  have  not  prepared  half  my  invitations. 
Do  you  not  guess  it,  seeing  that  I  did  not  name,  first 
of  all,  Elia,  who  assisted  at  the  "Rejoicings  upon  the 
new  year's  coming  of  age  "  ? 

And  yet,  if  Adoniram  should  never  marry?  —  or  if  we 
could  not  get  to  Spain  ?  —  or  if  the  company  would  not 
come  ? 

TThat  then  ?  Shall  I  betray  a  secret  ?  I  have  already 
entertained  this  party  in  my  humble  little  parlor  at  home, 
and  Prue  presided  as  serenely  as  Semiramis  over  her 
court.  Have  I  not  said  that  I  defy  time,  and  shall  space 
hope  to  daunt  me  ?  I  keep  books  by  day,  but  by  night 
books  keep  me.  They  leave  me  to  dreams  and  reveries. 
Shall  I  confess  that  sometimes  when  I  have  been  sitting, 
reading  to  my  Prue,  Cymbeline,  perhaps,  or  a  Canter- 
bury tale,  I  have  seemed  to  see  clearly  before  me  the 
broad  highway  to  my  castles  in  Spain ;  and  as  she  looked 
up  from  her  work,  and  smiled  in  sympathy,  I  have  even 
fancied  that  I  was  already  there. 


DREAM-CHILDREN:   A  REVERT. 

BY  CHARLES  LAMB. 

IHILDKEN  love  to  listen  to  stories  about  their 
elders,   when  they  were   children;   to  stretch 
t their  imagination  to  the  conception  of  a  tradi- 

tionary great-uncle  or  grandame,  whom  they  never  saw. 
It  was  in  this  spirit  that  my  little  ones  crept  about  me 
the  other  evening  to  hear  about  their  great-grandmother 
Field,  who  lived  in  a  great  house  in  Norfolk  (a  hundred 
times  bigger' than  that  in  which  they  and  papa  lived), 
which  had  been  the  scene  — so  at  least  it  was  generally 
believed  in  that  part  of  the  country  —  of  the  tragic  inci- 
dents which  they  had  lately  become  familiar  with  from 
the  ballad  of  the  Children  in  the  Wood.  Certain  it  is 
that  the  whole  story  of  the  children  and  their  cruel  uncle 
was  to  be  seen  fairly  carved  out  in  wood  upon  the  chim- 
ney-piece of  the  great  hall,  the  whole  story  down  to  the 
Robin-Redbreasts !  till  a  foolish  rich  person  pulled  it 
down  to  set  up  a  marble  one  of  modern  invention  in  its 
stead,  with  no  story  upon  it.  Here  Alice  put  out  one  of 
her  dear  mother's  looks,  too  tender  to  be  called  upbraid- 
ing. Then  I  went  on  to  say,  how  religious  and  how 


184  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

good  their  great-grandmother  Field  was,  how  beloved  and 
respected  by  everybody,  though  she  was  not  indeed  the 
mistress  of  this  great  house,  but  had  only  the  charge  of  it 
(and  yet  in  some  respects  she  might  "be  said  to  be  the 
mistress  of  it  too)  committed  to  her  by  the  owner,  who 
preferred  living  in  a  newer  and  more  fashionable  man- 
sion which  he  had  purchased  somewhere  in  the  adjoining 
county  ;  but  still  she  lived  in  it  in  a  manner  as  if  it  had 
been  her  own,  and  kept  up  the  dignity  of  the  great  house 
in  a  sort  while  she  lived,  which  afterwards  came  to  decay, 
and  was  nearly  pulled  down,  and  all  its  old  ornaments 
stripped  and  carried  away  to  the  owner's  other  house, 
where  they  were  set  up,  and  looked  as  awkward  as  if  some 
one  were  to  carry  away  the  old  tombs  they  had  seen  lately 
at  the  Abbey,  and  stick  them  up  in  Lady  C.'s  tawdry  gilt 
drawing-room.  Here  John  smiled,  as  much  as  to  say, 
"  That  would  be  foolish  indeed."  And  then  I  told  how, 
when  she  came  to  die,  her  funeral  was  attended  by  a  con- 
course of  all  the  poor,  and  some  of  the  genf  ry  too,  of  the 
neighborhood  for  many  miles  round,  to  show  their  respect 
for  her  memory,  because  she  had  been  such  a  good  and 
religious  woman ;  so  good  indeed  that  she  knew  all  the 
Psaltery  by  heart,  ay,  and  a  great  part  of  the  Testament 
besides.  Here  little  Alice  spread  her  hands.  Then  I 
told  what  a  tall,  upright,  graceful  person  their  great- 
grandmother  Field  once  was  ;  and  how  in  her  youth  she 
was  esteemed  the  best  dancer,  —  here  Alice's  little  right 
foot  played  an  involuntary  movement,  till,  upon  my  look- 
ing grave,  it  desisted,  —  the  best  dancer,  I  was  saying, 
in  the  county,  till  a  cruel  disease,  called  a  cancer,  came, 
and  bowed  her  down  with  pain ;  but  it  could  never  bend 


DREAM-CHILDKEN :    A   EEVERY.  185 

her  good  spirits,  or  make  them  stoop,  but  they  were  still 
upright,  because  she  was  so  good  and  religious.  Then  I 
told  how  she  was  used  to  sleep  by  herself  in  a  lone  cham- 
ber of  the  great  lone  house  ;  and  how  she  believed  that 
an  apparition  of  two  infants  was  to  be  seen  at  midnight 
gliding  up  and  down  the  great  staircase  near  where  she 
slept,  but  she  said  "those  innocents  would  do  her  no 
harm  "  ;  and  how  frightened  I  used  to  be,  though  in 
those  days  I  had  my  maid  to  sleep  with  me,  because  I 
was  never  half  so  good  or  religious  as  she,  —  and  yet  I 
never  saw  the  infants.  Here  John  expanded  all  his  eye- 
brows and  tried  to  look  courageous.  Then  I  told  how 
good  she  was  to  all  her  grandchildren,  having  us  to  the 
great  house  in  the  holidays,  where  I  in  particular  used 
to  spend  many  hours  by  myself,  in  gazing  upon  the  old 
basts  of  the  twelve  Caesars,  that  had  been  Emperors  of 
Rome,  till  the  old  marble  heads  would  seem  to  live  again, 
or  I  to  be  turned  into  marble  with  them ;  how  I  never 
could  be  tired  with  roaming  about  that  huge  mansion, 
with  its  vast  empty  rooms,  with  their  worn-out  hangings, 
fluttering  tapestry,  and  carved  oaken  panels,  with  the 
gilding  almost  rubbed  out,  —  sometimes  in  the  spacious 
old-fashioned  gardens,  which  I  had  almost  to  myself,  un- 
less when  now  and  then  a  solitary  gardening  man  would 
cross  me,  —  and  how  the  nectarines  and  peaches  hung 
upon  the  walls,  without  my  ever  offering  to  pluck  them, 
because  they  were  forbidden  fruit,  unless  now  and  then, 
—  and  because  I  had  more  pleasure  in  strolling  about 
among  the  old  melancholy  looking  yew-trees,  or  the  firs, 
and  picking  up  the  red  berries,  and  the  fir-apples,  which 
were  good  for  nothing  but  to  look  at,  —  or  in  lying 


186  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

about  upon  the  fresh  grass  with  all  the  fine  garden 
smells  around  me,  —  or  basking  in  the  orangery,  till  I 
could  almost  fancy  myself  ripening  too,  along  with  the 
oranges  and  the  limes  in  that  grateful  warmth,  —  or  in 
watching  the  dace  that  darted  to  and  fro  in  the  fish- 
pond, at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  with  here  and  there  a 
great  sulky  pike  hanging  midway  down  the  water  in  si- 
lent state,  as  if  it  mocked  at  their  impertinent  friskings, 
—  I  had  more  pleasure  in  these  busy -idle  diversions  than 
in  all  the  sweet  flavors  of  peaches,  nectarines,  oranges, 
and  such-like  common  baits  of  children.  Here  John 
slyly  deposited  back  upon  the  plate  a  bunch  of  grapes, 
which,  not  unobserved  by  Alice,  he  had  meditated  divid- 
ing with  her,  and  both  seemed  willing  to  relinquish  them 
for  the  present  as  irrelevant.  Then,  in  somewhat  a  more 
heightened  tone,  I  told  how,  though  their  great-grand- 
mother Field  loved  all  her  grandchildren,  yet  in  an  es- 
pecial manner  she  might  be  said  to  love  their  uncle,  John 

L ,  because  he  was  so  handsome  and  spirited  a  youth, 

and  a  king  to  the  rest  of  us  ;  and,  instead  of  moping 
about  in  solitary  corners,  like  some  of  us,  he  would 
mount  the  most  mettlesome  horse  he  could  get,  when 
but  an  imp  no  bigger  than  themselves,  and  make  it  carry 
him  half  over  the  county  in  a  morning,  and  join  the 
hunters  when  there  were  any  out,  —  and  yet  he  loved  the 
old  great  house  and  gardens  too,  but  had  too  much  spirit 
to  be  always  pent  up  within  their  boundaries,  —  and  how 
their  uncle  grew  up  to  man's  estate  as  brave  as  he  was 
handsome,  to  the  admiration  of  everybody,  but  of  their 
great-grandmother  Field  most  especially ;  and  how  he 
used  to  carry  me  upon  his  back  when  1  was  a  lame- 


DEE  AM- CHILDREN  :    A    REVERT.  187 

footed  boy,  —  for  he  was  a  good  bit  older  than  me,  — 
many  a  mile  when  I  could  not  walk  for  pain ;  —  and  how 
in  after  life  he  became  lame-footed  too,  and  I  did  not 
always  (I  fear)  make  allowances  enough  for  him  when 
he  was  impatient,  and  in  pain,  nor  remember  sufficiently 
how  considerate  he  had  been  to  me  when  I  was  lame- 
footed  ;  and  how  when  he  died,  though  he  had  not  been 
dead  an  hour,  it  seemed  as  if  he  had  died  a  great  while 
ago,  such  a  distance  there  is  betwixt  life  and  death ;  and 
how  I  bore  his  death  as  I  thought  pretty  well  at  first, 
but  afterwards  it  haunted  and  haunted  me ;  and  though 
I  did  not  cry  or  take  it  to  heart  as  some  do,  and  as  I 
think  he  would  have  done  if  I  had  died,  yet  I  missed 
him  all  day  long,  and  knew  not  till  then  how  much  I 
had  loved  him.  I  missed  his  kindness,  and  I  missed  his 
crossness,  and  wished  him  to  be  alive  again,  to  be  quar- 
relling with  him  (for  we  quarrelled  sometimes),  rather 
than  not  have  him  again,  and  was  as  uneasy  without  him 
as  he  their  poor  uncle  must  have  been  when  the  doctor 
took  off  his  limb.  Here  the  children  fell  a  crying,  and 
asked  if  their  little  mourning  which  they  had  on  was  not 
for  Uncle  John,  and  they  looked  up,  and  prayed  me  not 
to  go  on  about  their  uncle,  but  to  tell  them  some  stories 
about  their  pretty  dead  mother.  Then  I  told  how  for 
seven  long  years,  in  hope  sometimes,  sometimes  in  de- 
spair, yet  persisting  ever,  I  courted  the  fair  Alice  W n ; 

and,  as  much  as  children  could  understand,  I  explained 
to  them  what  coyness  and  difficulty  and  denial  meant  in 
maidens,  —  when  suddenly,  turning  to  Alice,  the  soul  of 
the  first  Alice  looked  out  at  her  eyes  with  such  a  real- 
ity of  re-presentment,  that  I  became  in  doubt  which  of 


188  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

them  stood  there  before  me,  or  whose  that  bright  hair 
was ;  and  while  I  stood  gazing,  both  the  children  grad- 
ually grew  fainter  to  my  view,  receding,  and  still  reced- 
ing, till  nothing  at  last  but  too  mournful  features  were 
seen  in  the  uttermost  distance,  which,  without  speech, 
strangely  impressed  upon  me  the  effects  of  speech :  "We 
are  not  of  Alice,  nor  of  thee,  nor  are  we  children  at 
all.  The  children  of  Alice  caU  Bartrum  father.  We 
are  nothing;  less  than  nothing,  and  dreams.  We  are 
only  what  might  have  been,  and  must  wait  upon  the 
tedious  shores  of  Lethe  millions  of  ages  before  we  have 
existence,  and  a  name "  ;  and  immediately  awaking,  I 
found  myself  quietly  seated  in  my  bachelor  arm-chair, 
where  I  had  fallen  asleep,  with  the  faithful  Bridget  un- 
changed by  my  side ;  but  John  L (or  James  Elia) 

was  gone  forever. 


THE   MAN   IN   THE   RESERVOIR. 

BY  CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN. 

|OU  may  see  some  of  the  best  society  in  New 
York  on  the  top  of  the  Distributing  Reservoir, 
any  of  these  fine  October  mornings.  There 
were  two  or  three  carriages  in  waiting,  and  half  a  dozen 
senatorial-looking  mothers  with  young  children,  pacing 
the  parapet,  as  we  basked  there  the  other  day  in  the  sun- 
shine, —  now  watching  the  pickerel  that  glide  along  the 
lucid  edges  of  the  black  pool  within,  and  now  looking  off 
upon  the  scene  of  rich  and  wondrous  variety  that  spreads 
along  the  two  rivers  on  either  side. 

"  They  may  talk  of  Alpheus  and  Arethusa,"  murmured 
an  idling  sophomore,  who  had  found  his  way  thither  dur- 
ing recitation  hours,  "  but  the  Croton  in  passing  over  an 
arm  of  the  sea  at  Spuyten-duyvil,  and  bursting  to  sight 
again  in  this  truncated  pyramid,  beats  it  all  hollow.  By 
George,  too,  the  bay  yonder  looks  as  blue  as  ever  the 
jEgean  Sea  to  Byron's  eye,  gazing  from  the  Acropolis ! 
But  the  painted  foliage  on  these  crags  !  —  the  Greeks 
must  have  dreamed  of  such  a  vegetable  phenomenon  in 
the  midst  of  their  grayish  olive  groves,  or  they  never 


190  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

would  have  supplied  the  want  of  it  in  their  landscape  by 
embroidering  their  marble  temples  with  gay  colors.  Did 
you  see  that  pike  break,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  did  not." 

"  Zounds  !  his  silver  fin  flashed  upon  the  black  Acheron, 
like  a  restless  soul  that  hoped  yet  to  mount  from  the 
pool." 

"  The  place  seems  suggestive  of  fancies  to  you  ?  "  we 
observed  in  reply  to  the  rattlepate. 

"It  is,  indeed,  for  I  have  done  up  a  good  deal  of 
anxious  thinking  \vithin  a  circle  of  a  few  yards  where 
that  fish  broke  just  now." 

••  A  singular  place  for  meditation,  — the  middle  of  the 
Reservoir ! " 

"  You  look  incredulous,  sir ;  but  it 's  a  fact.  A  fel- 
low can  never  tell,  until  he  is  tried,  in  what  situation  his 
most  earnest  meditations  may  be  concentrated.  I  am 
boring  you,  though?" 

"  Xot  at  all.  But  you  seem  so  familiar  with  the  spot, 
I  wish  you  could  tell  me  why  that  ladder  leading  down 
to  the  water  is  lashed  against  the  stone-work  in  yonder 
corner." 

"  That  ladder,"  said  the  young  man,  brightening  at  the 
question,  —  "  why,  the  position,  perhaps  the  very  exist- 
ence, of  that  ladder  resulted  from  my  meditations  in  the 
Reservoir,  at  which  you  smiled  just  now.  Shall  I  tell 
you  all  about  them  ?  " 

"  Pray  do." 

"  Well,  you  have  seen  the  notice  forbidding  any  one 
to  fish  in  the  Reservoir.  Now,  when  I  read  that  warning, 
the  spirit  of  the  thing  struck  me  at  once  as  inferring 


THE   MAN   IN   THE   RESERVOIR.  191 

nothing  more  than  that  one  should  not  sully  the  temper- 
ance potations  of  our  citizens  by  steeping  bait  in  it,  of 
any  kind ;  but  you  probably  know  the  common  way  of 
taking  pike  with  a  slip -noose  of  delicate  wire.  I  was 
determined  to  have  a  touch  at  the  fellows  with  this  kind 
of  tackle. 

"  I  chose  a  moonlight  night ;  and  an  hour  before  the 
edifice  was  closed  to  visitors,  I  secreted  myself  within 
the  walls,  determined  to  pass  the  night  on  the  top.  All 
went  as  I  could  wish  it.  The  night  proved  cloudy,  but 
it  was  only  a  variable  drift  of  broken  clouds  which  ob- 
scured the  moon.  I  had  a  walking  cane-rod  with  me 
which  would  reach  to  the  margin  of  the  water,  and  sev- 
eral feet  beyond  if  necessary.  To  this  was  attached  the 
wire  about  fifteen  inches  in  length. 

"  I  prowled  along  the  parapet  for  a  considerable  time, 
but  not  a  single  fish  could  I  see.  The  clouds  made  a 
flickering  light  and  shade,  that  wholly  foiled  my  stead- 
fast gaze.  I  was  convinced  that  should  they  come  up 
thicker,  my  whole  night's  adventure  wouldrbe  thrown 
away.  '  Why  should  I  not  descend  the  sloping  wall  and 
get  nearer  on  a  level  with  the  fish,  for  thus  alone  can  I 
hope  to  see  one  ?  '  The  question  had  hardly  shaped  it- 
self in  my  mind  before  I  had  one  leg  over  the  iron  rail- 
ing. 

"  If  you  look  around  you  will  see  now  that  there  are 
some  half-dozen  weeds  growing  here  and  there,  amid  the 
fissures  of  the  solid  masonry.  In  one  of  the  fissures 
from  whence  these  spring,  I  planted  a  foot  and  began 
my  descent.  The  Reservoir  was  fuller  than  it  is  now, 
and  a  few  strides  would  have  earned  me  to  the  margin 
9* 


192  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

of  the  water.  Holding  on  to  the  cleft  above,  I  felt  round 
with  one  foot  for  a  place  to  plant  it  below  me. 

"  In  that  moment  the  flap  of  a  pound  pike  made  me 
look  round,  and  the  roots  of  the  weed  upon  which  I  par- 
tially depended  gave  way  as  I  was  in  the  act  of  turning. 
Sir,  one's  senses  are  sharpened  in  deadly  peril ;  as  I 
live  now,  I  distinctly  heard  the  bells  of  Trinity  chiming 
midnight,  as  I  rose  to  the  surface  the  next  instant,  im- 
mersed in  the  stone  caldron,  where  I  must  swim  for  my 
life  Heaven  only  could  tell  how  long ! 

"  I  am  a  capital  swimmer  ;  and  this  naturally  gave  me 
a  degree  of  self-possession.  Falling  as  I  had,  I  of  course 
had  pitched  out  some  distance  from  the  sloping  parapet. 
A  few  strokes  brought  me  to  the  edge.  I  really  was  not 
yet  certain  but  that  I  could  clamber  up  the  face  of  the 
wall  anywhere.  I  hoped  that  I  could.  I  felt  certain  at 
least  there  was  some  spot  where  I  might  get  hold  with 
my  hands,  even  if  I  did  not  ultimately  ascend  it. 

"  I  tried  the  nearest  spot.  The  inclination  of  the  wall 
was  so  vertical  that  it  did  not  even  rest  me  to  lean 
against  it.  I  felt  with  my  hands  and  with  my  feet. 
Surely,  I  thought,  there  must  be  some  fissure  like  those 
in  which  that  ill-omened  weed  had  found  a  place  for  its 
root! 

"  There  was  none.  My  fingers  became  sore  in  busy- 
ing themselves  with  the  harsh  and  inhospitable  stones. 
My  feet  slipped  from  the  smooth  and  slimy  masonry  be- 
neath the  water ;  and  several  times  my  face  came  in  rude 
contact  with  the  wall,  when  my  foothold  gave  way  on 
the  instant  that  I  seemed  to  have  found  some  diminutive 
rocky  cleat  upon  which  I  could  stay  myself. 


THE    MAN    IN    THE    RESERVOIR.  193 

"  Sir,  did  you  ever  see  a  rat  drowned  in  a  half-filled 
hogshead, — how  he  swims  round,  and  round,  and  round  ; 
and  after  vainly  trying  the  sides  again  and  again  with  his 
paws,  fixes  his  eyes  upon  the  upper  rim  as  if  he  would 
look  himself  out  of  his  watery  prison  ? 

"  I  thought  of  the  miserable  vermin,  thought  of  him 
as  I  had  often  watched  thus  his  dying  agonies,  when  a 
cruel  urchin  of  eight  or  ten.  Boys  are  horribly  cruel, 
sir ;  boys,  women,  and  savages.  All  childlike  things  are 
cruel ;  cruel  from  a  want  of  thought  and  from  perverse 
ingenuity,  although  by  instinct  each  of  these  is  so  tender. 
You  may  not  have  observed  it,  but  a  savage  is  as  tender 
to  its  own  young  as  a  boy  is  to  a  favorite  puppy,  —  the 
same  boy  that  will  torture  a  kitten  out  of  existence.  I 
thought  then,  I  say,  of  the  rat  drowning  in  a  half-filled 
cask  of  water,  and  lifting  his  gaze  out  of  the  vessel  as  he 
grew  more  and  more  desperate,  and  I  flung  myself  on  my 
back,  and,  floating  thus,  fixed  my  eyes  upon  the  face  of 
the  moon. 

"The  moon  is  well  enough  in  her  way,  however  you 
may  look  at  her ;  but  her  appearance  is,  to  say  the  least 
of  it,  peculiar  to  a  man  floating  on  his  back  in  the  cen- 
tre of  a  stone  tank,  with  a  dead  wall  of  some  fifteen  or 
twenty  feet  rising  squarely  on  every  side  of  him  ! "  (The 
young  man  smiled  bitterly  as  he  said  this,  and  shuddered 
once  or  twice  before  he  went  on  musingly.)  "  The  last 
time  I  had  noted  the  planet  with  any  emotion  she  was  on 
the  wane.  Mary  was  with  me ;  I  had  brought  her  out 
here  one  morning  to  look  at  the  view  from  the  top  of  the 
Reservoir.  She  said  little  of  the  scene,  but  as  we  talked 
of  our  old  childish  loves,  I  saw  that  its  fresh  features 


LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

were  incorporating  themselves  with  tender  memories  of 
the  past,  and  I  was  content. 

"There  was  a  rich  golden  haze  upon  the  landscape, 
and  as  my  own  spirits  rose  amid  the  voluptuous  atmos- 
phere, she  pointed  to  the  waning  planet,  discernible  like 
a  faint  gash  in  the  welkin,  and  wondered  how  long  it 
would  be  before  the  leaves  would  fall.  Strange  girl! 
did  she  mean  to  rebuke  my  joyous  mood,  as  if  we  had  no 
right  to  be  happy  while  Nature  withering  in  her  pomp, 
and  the  sickly  moon  wasting  in  the  blaze  of  noontide, 
were  there  to  remind  us  of  '  the-gone-forever '  ?  '  They 
will  all  renew  themselves,  dear  Mary,'  said  I,  encour- 
agingly, '  and  there  is  one  that  will  ever  keep  tryst  alike 
with  thee  and  nature  through  all  seasons,  if  thou  wilt 
but  be  true  to  one  of  us,  and  remain  as  now  a  child  of 
nature.' 

"A  tear  sprang  to  her  eye,  and  then  searching  her 
pocket  for  her  card-case,  she  remembered  an  engage- 
ment to  be  present  at  Miss  Lawson's  opening  of  fall  bon- 
nets at  two  o'clock ! 

"  And  yet,  dear,  wild,  wayward  Mary,  I  thought  of  her 
now.  You  have  probably  outlived  this  sort  of  thing,  sir ; 
but  I,  looking  at  the  moon,  as  I  floated  there  upturned 
to  her  yellow  light,  thought  of  the  loved  being  whose 
tears  I  knew  would  flow  when  she  heard  of  my  singular 
fate,  at  once  so  grotesque,  yet  melancholy  to  awfulness. 

"  And  how  often  we  have  talked,  too,  of  that  Carian 
shepherd  who  spent  his  damp  nights  upon  the  hills, 
gazing  as  I  do  on  the  lustrous  planet !  Who  will  revel 
with  her  amid  those  old  superstitions  ?  Who,  from  our 
own  unlegended  woods,  will  evoke  their  yet  undetected, 


THE    MAN   IN   THE   RESERVOIR.  195 

haunting  spirits  ?  Who  peer  with  her  in  prying  scrutiny 
into  nature's  laws,  and  challenge  the  whispers  of  poetry 
from  the  voiceless  throat  of  matter  ?  Who  laugh  merrily 
over  the  stupid  guess-work  of  pedants,  that  never  mingled 
with  the  infinitude  of  nature,  through  love  exhaustless 
and  all-embracing,  as  we  have  ?  Poor  girl !  she  will  be 
companionless. 

"  Alas  !  companionless  forever,  —  save  in  the  exciting 
stages  of  some  brisk  flirtation.  She  will  live  hereafter  by 
feeding  other  hearts  with  love's  lore  she  has  learned  from 
me,  and  then,  Pygmalion-like,  grow  fond  of  the  images 
she  has  herself  endowed  with  semblance  of  divinity,  until 
they  seem  to  breathe  back  the  mystery  the  soul  can  truly 
catch  from  only  one. 

"  How  anxious  she  will  be  lest  the  coroner  shall  have 
discovered  any  of  her  notes  in  my  pocket ! 

"  I  felt  chilly  as  this  last  reflection  crossed  my  mind, 
partly  at  thought  of  the  coroner,  partly  at  the  idea  of 
Mary  being  unwillingly  compelled  to  wear  mourning  for 
me,  in  case  of  such  a  disclosure  of  our  engagement.  It 
is  a  provoking  thing  for  a  girl  of  nineteen  to  have  to  go 
into  mourning  for  a  deceased  lover,  at  the  beginning  of 
her  second  winter  in  the  metropolis. 

"  The  water,  though,  with  my  motionless  position,  must 
have  had  something  to  do  with  my  chilliness.  I  see,  sir, 
you  think  that  I  tell  my  story  with  great  levity ;  but 
indeed,  indeed  I  should  grow  delirious  did  I  venture  to 
hold  steadily  to  the  awfulness  of  my  feelings  the  greater 
part  of  that  night.  I  think,  indeed,  I  must  have  been 
most  of  the  time  hysterical  with  horror,  for  the  vibrating 
emotions  I  have  recapitulated  did  pass  through  my  brain 
even  as  I  have  detailed  them. 


196  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

"  But  as  I  now  became  calm  in  thought,  I  summoned  up 
again  some  resolution  of  action. 

"  I  will  begin  at  that  corner  (said  I),  and  s\vim  around 
ttafc  whole  enclosure.  I  will  swim  slowly  and  again  feel 
the  sides  of  the  tank  with  my  feet.  If  die  I  must,  let 
me  perish  at  least  from  well-directed  though  exhausting 
effort,  not  sink  from  mere  bootless  weariness  in  sustain- 
ing myself  till  the  morning  shall  bring  relief. 

"  The  sides  of  the  place  seemed  to  grow  higher  as  I 
now  kept  my  watery  course  beneath  them.  It  was  not 
altogether  a  dead  pull.  I  had  some  variety  of  emotion 
in  making  my  circuit.  TThen  I  swam  in  the  shadow,  it 
looked  to  me  more  cheerful  beyond  in  the  moonlight. 
When  I  swam  in  the  moonlight,  I  had  the  hope  of  making 
some  discovery  when  I  should  again  reach  the  shadow. 
I  turned  several  times  on  my  back  to  rest  just  where 
those  wavy  lines  would  meet.  The  stars  looked  viciously 
bright  to  me  from  the  bottom  of  "that  well;  there  was 
such  a  company  of  them ;  they  were  so  glad  in  their 
lustrous  revelry ;  and  they  had  sucli  space  to  move  in !  I 
was  alone,  sad  to  despair,  in  a  strange  element,  prisoned, 
and  a  solitary  gazer  upon  their  mocking  chorus.  And 
yet  there  was  nothing  else  with  which  I  could  hold  com- 
munion! 

"I  turned  upon  my  breast  and  struck  out  almost 
frantically  once  more.  The  stars  were  forgotten;  the 
moon,  the  very  world  of  which  I  as  yet  formed  a  part, 
my  poor  Mary  herself,  was  forgotten.  I  thought  only 
of  the  strong  man  there  perishing;  of  me  in  my  lusty 
manhood,  in  the  sharp  vigor  of  my  dawning  prime,  with 
faculties  illimitable,  with  senses  all  alert,  battling  there 


THE    MAN    IN    THE    RESERVOIR.  197 

with  physical  obstacles  which  men  like  myself  had  brought 
together  for  my  undoing.  The  Eternal  could  never  have 
willed  this  thing !  I  could  not  and  I  would  not  perish 
thus.  And  I  grew  strong  in  insolence  of  self-trust ;  and 
I  laughed  aloud  as  I  dashed  the  sluggish  water  from  side 
to  side. 

"  Then  came  an  emotion  of  pity  for  myself,  —  of  wild, 
wild  regret ;  of  sorrow,  0,  infinite  for  a  fate  so  desolate, 
a  doom  so  dreary,  so  heart-sickening !  You  may  laugh  at 
the  contradiction  if  you  will,  sir,  but  I  felt  that  I  could 
sacrifice  my  own  life  on  the  instant,  to  redeem  another 
fellow-creature  from  such  a  place  of  horror,  from  an  end 
so  piteous.  My  soul  and  my  vital  spirit  seemed  in  that 
desperate  moment  to  be  separating ;  while  one  in  parting 
grieved  over  the  deplorable  fate  of  the  other. 

"  And  then  I  prayed !  I  prayed,  why  or  wherefore  I 
know  not.  It  was  not  from  fear.  It  could  not  have  been 
in  hope.  The  days  of  miracles  are  passed,  and  there 
was  no  natural  law  by  whose  providential  interposition  I 
could  be  saved.  I  did  not  pray ;  it  prayed  of  itself,  my 
soul  within  me. 

"  Was  the  calmness  that  I  now  felt,  torpidity  ?  the  tor- 
pidity that  precedes  dissolution,  to  the  strong  swimmer 
who,  sinking  from  exhaustion,  must  at  last  add  a  bubble 
to  the  wave  as  he  suffocates  beneath  the  element  which 
now  denied  his  mastery  ?  If  it  were  so,  how  fortunate 
was  it  that  my  floating  rod  at  that  moment  attracted  my 
attention  as  it  dashed  through  the  water  by  me.  I  saw 
on  the  instant  that  a  fish  had  entangled  himself  in  the 
wire  noose.  The  rod  quivered,  plunged,  came  again  to 
the  surface,  and  rippled  the  water  as  it  shot  in  arrowy 


198  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

flight  from  side  to  side  of  the  tank.  At  last  driven 
toward  the  southeast  corner  of  the  Reservoir,  the  small 
end  seemed  to  have  got  foul  somewhere.  The  brazen 
butt,  which,  every  time  the  fish  sounded,  was  thrown  up 
to  the  moon,  now  sank  by  its  own  weight,  showing  that 
the  other  end  must  be  fast.  But  the  cornered  fish, 
evidently  anchored  somewhere  by  that  short  wire,  floun- 
dered several  times  to  the  surface,  before  I  thought  of 
striking  out  to  the  spot. 

"  The  water  is  low  now,  and  tolerably  clear.  You  may 
see  the  very  ledge  there,  sir,  in  yonder  corner,  on  which 
the  small  end  of  my  rod  rested  when  I  secured  that  pike 
with  my  hands.  I  did  not  take  him  from  the  slip-noose, 
however ;  but,  standing  upon  the  ledge,  handled  the  rod 
in  a  workmanlike  manner,  as  I  flung  that  pound  pickerel 
over  the  iron  railing  upon  the  top  of  the  parapet.  The 
rod,  as  I  have  told  you,  barely  reached  from  the  railing 
to  the  water.  It  was  a  heavy,  strong  bass  rod  which  I 
had  borrowed  in  the  '  Spirit  of  the  Times '  office ;  and 
when  I  discovered  that  the  fish  at  the  end  of  the  wire 
made  a  strong  enough  knot  to  prevent  me  from  drawing 
my  tackle  away  from  the  railing  around  which  it  twined 
itself  as  I  threw,  why,  as  you  can  at  once  see,  I  had  but 
little  difficulty  in  making  my  way  up  the  face  of  the  wall 
with  such  assistance.  The  ladder  which  attracted  your 
notice  is,  as  you  see,  lashed  to  the  iron  railing  in  the 
identical  spot  where  I  thus  made  my  escape ;  and,  for 
fear  of  similar  accidents,  they  have  placed  another  one  in 
the  corresponding  corner  of  the  other  compartment  of  the 
tank  ever  since  my  remarkable  night's  adventure  in  the 
Reservoir." 


WESTMINSTER   ABBEY. 

BY  JOSEPH  ADDISON. 

|HEN  I  am  in  a  serious  humor  I  very  often  walk 
by  myself  in  Westminster  Abbey,  where  the 
gloominess  of  the  place,  and  the  use  to  which 
it  is  applied,  with  the  solemnity  of  the  building,  and  the 
condition  of  the  people  who  lie  in  it,  are  apt  to  fill  the 
mind  witli  a  kind  of  melancholy,  or  rather  thoughtful- 
uess,  that  is  not  disagreeable.  I  yesterday  passed  a 
whole  afternoon  in  the  churchyard,  the  cloisters,  and  the 
church,  amusing  myself  with  the  tombstones  and  inscrip- 
tions that  I  met  with  in  those  several  regions  of  the  dead. 
Most  of  them  recorded  nothing  else  of  the  buried  person 
but  that  he  was  born  upon  one  day  and  died  upon  an- 
other, —  the  whole  history  of  his  life  being  comprehended 
in  those  two  circumstances  that  are  common  to  all  man- 
kind. I  could  not  but  look  upon  these  registers  of  exist- 
ence, whether  of  brass  or  marble,  as  a  kind  of  satire  upon 
the  departed  persons ;  who  had  left  no  other  memorial 
of  them  but  that  they  were  born,  and  that  they  died. 
They  put  me  in  mind  of  several  persons  mentioned  in  the 
battles  of  heroic  poems,  who  have  sounding  names  given 


200  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

them  for  no  other  reason  but  that  they  may  be  killed,  and 
are  celebrated  for  nothing  but  being  knocked  on  the  head. 

Glaucuinque,  Medontaque,  Thersilochumque,  —  the 
life  of  these  men  is  finely  described  in  Holy  Writ  by 
"the  path  of  an  arrow,"  which  is  immediately  closed  up 
and  lost. 

Upon  my  going  into  the  church,  I  entertained  myself 
with  the  digging  of  a  grave,  and  saw  in  every  shovelful 
of  it  that  was  thrown  up  the  fragment  of  a  bone  or 
skull,  intermixed  with  a  kind  of  fresh  mouldering  earth 
that  some  time  or  other  had  a  place  in  the  composition 
of  a  human  body.  Upon  this  I  began  to  consider  with 
myself  what  innumerable  multitudes  of  people  lay  con- 
fused together  under  the  pavement  of  that  ancient  cathe- 
dral ;  how  men  and  women,  friends  and  enemies,  priests 
and  soldiers,  monks  and  prebendaries,  were  crumbled 
among  one  another,  and  blended  together  in  the  same 
common  mass ;  how  beauty,  strength,  and  youth,  with 
old  age,  weakness,  and  deformity,  lay  undistinguished  in 
the  same  promiscuous  heap  of  matter. 

After  having  thus  surveyed  the  great  magazine  of 
mortality,  as  it  were,  in  the  lump,  I  examined  it  more 
particularly  by  the  accounts  which  I  found  on  several  of 
the  monuments  which  are  raised  in  every  quarter  of  that 
ancient  fabric.  Some  of  them  were  covered  with  such 
extravagant  epitaphs,  that  if  it  were  possible  for  the  dead 
person  to  be  acquainted  with  them,  he  would  blush  at 
the  praises  which  his  friends  have  bestowed  upon  him. 
There  are  others  so  excessively  modest  that  they  deliver 
the  character  of  the  person  departed  in  Greek  or  Hebrew, 
and  by  that  means  are  not  understood  once  in  a  twelve- 


WESTMINSTER   ABBEY.  201 

month.  Li  the  poetical  quarter  I  found  there  were  poets 
who  had  no  monuments,  and  monuments  which  had  no 
poets.  I  observed,  indeed,  that  the  present  war  has 
filled  the  church  with  many  of  these  uninhabited  monu- 
ments, which  had  been  erected  to  the  memory  of  persons 
whose  bodies  were,  perhaps,  buried  in  the  plains  of  Blen- 
heim, or  in  the  bosom  of  the  ocean. 

I  could  not  but  be  very  much  delighted  with  several 
modern  epitaphs,  which  are  written  with  great  elegance 
of  expression  and  justness  of  thought,  and  therefore  do 
honor  to  the  living  as  well  as  the  dead.  As  a  foreigner 
is  very  apt  to  conceive  an  idea  of  the  ignorance  or 
politeness  of  a  nation  from  the  turn  of  their  public  monu- 
ments and  inscriptions,  they  should  be  submitted  to  the 
perusal  of  men  of  learning  and  genius  before  they  are 
put  in  execution.  Sir  Cloudesly  Shovel's  monument  has 
very  often  given  me  great  oifence.  Instead  of  the  brave, 
rough  English  admiral,  which  was  the  distinguishing 
character  of  that  plain,  gallant  man,  he  is  represented  on 
his  tomb  by  the  figure  of  a  beau,  dressed  in  a  long  peri- 
wig, and  reposing  himself  upon  velvet  cushions,  under  a 
canopy  of  state.  The  inscription  is  answerable  to  the 
monument ;  for,  instead  of  celebrating  the  many  remark- 
able actions  he  had  performed  in  the  service  of  his  coun- 
try, it  acquaints  us  only  with  the  manner  of  his  death, 
in  which  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  reap  any  honor. 
The  Dutch,  whom  we  are  apt  to  despise  for  want  of 
genius,  show  an  infinitely  greater  taste  of  antiquity  and 
politeness  in  their  buildings  and  works  of  this  nature 
than  what  we  meet  with  in  those  of  our  own  country. 
The  monuments  of  their  admirals,  which  have  been 


202  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

erected  at  the  public  expense,  represent  them  like  them- 
selves, and  are  adorned  with  rostral  crowns  and  naval 
ornaments,  with  beautiful  festoons  of  sea-weed,  shells, 
and  coral. 

But  to  return  to  our  subject.  I  have  left  the  reposi- 
tory of  our  English  kings  for  the  contemplation  of  an- 
other day,  when  I  shall  find  my  mind  disposed  for  so 
serious  an  amusement.  I  know  that  entertainments  of 
this  nature  are  apt  to  raise  dark  and  dismal  thoughts  in 
timorous  minds  and  gloomy  imaginations ;  but  for  my 
own  part,  though  I  am  always  serious,  I  do  not  know 
what  it  is  to  be  melancholy,  and  can  therefore  take  a 
view  of  nature  in  her  deep  and  solemn  scenes  with  the 
same  pleasure  as  in  her  most  gay  and  delightful  ones. 
By  this  means  I  can  improve  myself  with  those  objects 
which  others  consider  with  terror.  When  I  look  upon 
the  tombs  of  the  great,  every  emotion  of  envy  dies  within 
me ;  when  I  read  the  epitaphs  of  the  beautiful,  every 
inordinate  desire  goes  out ;  when  I  meet  with  the  grief 
of  parents  upon  a  tombstone,  my  heart  melts  with  com- 
passion ;  when  I  see  the  tomb  of  the  parents  themselves, 
I  consider  the  vanity  of  grieving  for  those  whom  we 
must  quickly  follow.  When  I  see  kings  lying  by  those 
who  deposed  them,  when  I  consider  rival  wits  placed  side 
by  side,  or  the  holy  men  that  divided  the  world  with  their 
contests  and  disputes,  I  reflect  with  sorrow  and  astonish- 
ment on  the  little  competitions,  factions,  and  debates 
of  mankind.  When  I  read  the  several  dates  of  the  tombs, 
of  some  that  died  yesterday,  and  some  six  hundred  years 
ago,  I  consider  that  great  day  when  we  shall  all  of  us  be 
contemporaries,  and  make  our  appearance  together. 


THE   PURITANS. 

BY  THOMAS  BABINGTON  MACATJLAY. 

1HE  Puritans  were  men  whose  minds  had  derived 
a  peculiar  character  from  the  daily  contemplation 
of  superior  beings  and  eternal  interests.  Not 
content  with  acknowledging,  in  general  terms,  an  over- 
ruling Providence,  they  habitually  ascribed  every  event 
to  the  will  of  the  Great  Being,  for  whose  power  nothing 
was  too  vast,  for  whose  inspection  nothing  was  too 
minute.  To  know  him,  to  serve  him,  to  enjoy  him, 
was  with  them  the  great  end  of  existence.  They  rejected 
with  contempt  the  ceremonious  homage  which  other  sects 
substituted  for  the  pure  worship  of  the  soul.  Instead  of 
catching  occasional  glimpses  of  the  Deity  through  an 
obscuring  veil,  they  aspired  to  gaze  full  on  the  intolerable 
brightness,  and  to  commune  with  him  face  to  face.  Hence 
originated  their  contempt  for  terrestrial  distinctions.  The 
difference  between  the  greatest  and  the  meanest  of  man- 
kind seemed  to  vanish,  when  compared  with  the  bound- 
less interval  which  separated  the  whole  race  from  him 
on  whom  their  own  eyes  were  constantly  fixed.  They 
recognized  no  title  to  superiority  but  his  favor;  and, 


204  .LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

confident  of  that  favor,  they  despised  all  the  accomplish- 
ments and  all  the  dignities  of  the  world.  If  they  were 
unacquainted  with  the  worts  of  philosophers  and  poets, 
they  were  deeply  read  in  the  oracles  of  God.  If  their 
names  were  not  found  in  the  registers  of  heralds,  they  felt 
assured  that  they  were  recorded  in  the  Book  of  Life.  If 
their  steps  were  not  accompanied  by  a  splendid  train  of 
menials,  legions  of  ministering  angels  had  charge  over 
them.  Their  palaces  were  houses  not  made  with  hands; 
their  diadems  crowns  of  glory  which  should  never  fade 
away.  On  the  rich  and  the  eloquent,  on  nobles  and 
priests,  they  looked  down  with  contempt;  for  they  es- 
teemed themselves  rich  in  a  more  precious  treasure,  and 
eloquent  in  a  more  sublime  language,  nobles  by  the  right 
of  an  earlier  creation,  and  priests  by  the  imposition  of 
a  mightier  hand.  The  very  meanest  of  them  was  a  be- 
ing to  whose  fate  a  mysterious  and  terrible  importance 
belonged,  —  on  whose  slightest  actions  the  spirits  of  light 
and  darkness  looked  with  anxious  interest,  —  who  had 
been  destined,  before  heaven  and  earth  were  created,  to 
enjoy  a  felicity  which  should  continue  when  heaven  and 
earth  should  have  passed  away.  Events  which  short- 
sighted politicians  ascribed  to  earthly  causes  had  been 
ordained  on  his  account.  For  his  sake  empires  had 
risen,  and  flourished,  and  decayed.  Tor  his  sake  the 
Almighty  had  proclaimed  his  will  by  the  pen  of  the 
evangelist  and  the  harp  of  the  prophet.  He  had  been 
rescued  by  no  common  deliverer  from  the  grasp  of  no 
common  foe.  He  had  been  ransomed  by  the  sweat  of  no 
vulgar  agony,  by  the  blood  of  no  earthly  sacrifice.  It 
was  for  him  that  the  sun  had  been  darkened,  that  the 


THE    PURITANS.  205 

rocks  had  been  rent,  that  the  dead  had  arisen,  that  all 
nature  had  shuddered  at  the  sufferings  of  her  expiring 
God. 

Thus  the  Puritan  was  made  up  of  two  different  men,  — 
the  one  all  self-abasement,  penitence,  gratitude,  passion ; 
the  other  proud,  calm,  inflexible,  sagacious.  He  pros- 
trated himself  in  the  dust  before  his  Maker ;  but  he  set 
his  foot  on  the  neck  of  his  king.  In  his  devotional 
retirement,  he  prayed  with  convulsions,  and  groans,  and 
tears.  He  was  half  maddened  by  glorious  or  terrible 
illusions.  He  heard  the  lyres  of  angels  or  the  tempting 
whispers  of  fiends.  He  caught  a  gleam  of  the  Beatific 
Vision,  or  woke  screaming  from  dreams  of  everlasting 
fire.  Like  Vane,  he  thought  himself  intrusted  with  the 
sceptre  of  the  millennial  year.  Like  Fleetwood,  he  cried 
in  the  bitterness  of  his  soul  that  God  had  hid  his  face 
from  him.  But  when  he  took  his  seat  in  the  council,  or 
girt  on  his  sword  for  war,  these  tempestuous  workings 
of  the  soul  had  left  no  perceptible  trace  behind  them. 
People  who  saw  nothing  of  the  godly  but  their  uncouth 
visages,  and  heard  nothing  from  them  but  their  groans 
and  their  whining  hymns,  might  laugh  at  them.  But 
those  had  little  reason  to  laugh  who  encountered  them  in 
the  hall  of  debate  or  on  the  field  of  battle.  These  fanatics 
brought  to  civil  and  military  affairs  a  coolness  of  judgment 
and  an  immutability  of  purpose  which  some  writers  have 
thought  inconsistent  with  their  religious  zeal,  but  which 
were  in  fact  the  necessary  effects  of  it.  The  intensity  of 
their  feelings  on  one  subject  made  them  tranquil  on  every 
other.  One  overpowering  sentiment  had  subjected  to 
itself  pity  and  hatred,  ambition  and  fear.  Death  had  lost 


206  LITTLE    CLASSICS. 

its  terrors,  and  pleasure  its  charms.  They  had  their 
smiles  and  their  tears,  their  raptures  and  their  sorrows, 
but  not  for  the  things  of  this  world.  Enthusiasm  had 
made  them  stoics,  had  cleared  their  minds  from  every 
vulgar  passion  and  prejudice,  and  raised  them  above  the 
influence  of  danger  and  of  corruption.  It  sometimes 
might  lead  them  to  pursue  unwise  ends,  but  never  to 
choose  unwise  means. 

We  perceive  the  absurdity  of  their  manners.  We  dis- 
like the  sullen  gloom  of  their  domestic  habits.  We  ac- 
knowledge that  the  tone  of  their  minds  was  often  injured 
by  straining  after  things  too  high  for  mortal  reach.  And 
we  know  that,  in  spite  of  their  hatred  of  Popery,  they 
too  often  fell  into  the  worst  vices  of  that  bad  system, 
intolerance  and  extravagant  austerity;  that  they  had 
their  anchorites  and  their  crusades,  their  Dunstans  and 
their  De  Moutforts,  their  Dominies  and  their  Escobars. 
They  went  through  the  world  like  Sir  Artegale's  iron 
man  Talus  with  his  flail,  crushing  and  trampling  down 
all  oppressors;  mingling  with  human  beings,  but  having 
neither  part  nor  lot  in  human  infirmities ;  insensible  to 
fatigue,  to  pleasure,  and  to  pain ;  not  to  be  pierced  by 
any  weapon,  not  to  be  withstood  by  any  barrier. 


GETTYSBURG. 

BY   ABRAHAM  LINCOLN. 

|OUE,SCORE  and  seven  years  ago  our  fathers 
brought  forth  upon  this  continent  a  new  na- 
tion, conceived  in  Liberty,  and  dedicated  to  the 
proposition  that  all  men  are  created  equal.  Now  we  are 
engaged  in  a  great  civil  war,  testing  whether  that  nation, 
or  any  nation  so  conceived  and  so  dedicated,  can  long 
endure.  We  are  met  on  a  great  battle-field  of  that  war. 
We  are  met  to  dedicate  a  portion  of  it  as  the  final  rest- 
ing-place of  those  who  here  gave  their  lives  that  that  na- 
tion might  live.  It  is  altogether  fitting  and  proper  that 
we  should  do  this.  But  in  a  larger  sense  we  cannot 
dedicate,  we  cannot  consecrate,  we  cannot  hallow,  this 
ground.  The  brave  men,  living  and  dead,  who  struggled 
here,  have  consecrated  it  far  above  our  power  to  add  or 
detract.  The  world  will  little  note  nor  long  remember 
what  we  say  here,  but  it  can  never  forget  what  they  did 
here.  It  is  for  us,  the  living,  rather  to  be  dedicated 
here  to  the  unfinished  work  that  they  have  thus  far  so 
nobly  carried  on.  It  is  rather  for  us  to  be  here  dedi- 
cated to  the  great  task  remaining  before  us ;  that  from 


208 


LITTLE    CLASSICS. 


these  honored  dead  we  take  increased  devotion  to  the 
cause  for  which  they  here  gave  the  last  full  measure  of 
devotion;  that  we  here  highly  resolve  that  the  dead 
shall  not  have  died  in  vain,  that  the  nation  shall,  under 
God,  have  a  new  birth  of  freedom,  and  that  government 
of  the  people,  by  the  people,  and  for  the  people,  shall  not 
perish  from  the  earth. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 
LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 
on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


(TO 

.      • 
28Mar'62LZ 


LD 


APR    3 1962 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


